He knows that the release of the writings across his arms brings him more comfort than this world ever has, the pen of his pain allowing for him to feel again.

 He covered his arms with the sleeves of his worn jacket and avoided eye contact with anyone passing, hoping his eyes wouldn’t show his pain.

 His eyes screamed for help, he begged for someone to notice when the silver pens would go missing, but no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to care.

 The red turned to white, and the white turned to red once more when the pen met the paper.

 But the paper was his skin, and the pen was his demise. 

 His eyes grew darker, the light fading with every brush of the pen. 

 His body grew weaker with every new writing in that bright red ink.

 Until one day that light was gone, and the pen wrote too much.

 The ink spilled everywhere until it stopped pouring.

 That’s when everyone noticed, that’s when everyone cared.

 When the paper turned red, but would never turn white.

 When the boy’s pain became too much that his line went flat and his blood stopped pumping.

 The world finally offered light, light that was shown much too late.

 His light was gone, and now the world felt his pain, though theirs temporarily, his body was cold and his eyes were dark, face pale and arms stained red.

 Pain is always temporary, as nothing lasts forever, but this poor kid decided physical pain was his fix.