"Marco?"
You could hear the sound of a heart breaking.
"Marco! Marco, wake up!"
There he was, the boy the voice screamed for, lying on the motionless on the cold, bathroom tiles.
Vile, red liquid was sprayed everywhere. The motionless boy's arm leaving an ever-growing puddle of blood.
The blonde-haired boy fell to the ground, his hand cupped over his mouth.
Even his freckles were coated in blood.
"Talk to me! Wake up, Marco!"
The terrified boy picked up his still wrist. Cold.
Dead. Cold.
He latched onto his shirt and lay his head on the still body. His hands were shaking just like the rest of him.
"Marco.."
He reached for the knife lying on the floor.
"Why, why would you do this to yourself?!"
The blonde drew the knife closer and closer to his neck, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"You had so much to live for! I need you.."
He took one last look at Marco and shut his eyes.
"I love you Marco."
Nothing was heard, but a screaming silence as doctors pushed through the doorways yelling orders at each other.
One set of hands knocks the knife out of the boys grip and attempts to pull him away from the body.
He flails and screams, gripping Marco's chest.
"MARCO! MARCO I LOVE YOU! LET ME GO!"
"It's okay," they say, "everything is going to be okay."
In amongst the blood, protesting and screams, as they pushed the needle into his arm, and he felt one minuscule sign of hope. One beat, from the freckled boy's chest.
