He had nothing to lose. They would find him soon. They always did. Yet still, every time – every fucking time – he clung to the hope that they’d be a moment too late.

Because that was all it would take: a second of pain, a few moments of sweet relief, and then… freedom. It wasn’t as if he’d never been able to rehearse: the faded pearlescent scars were testimony to this. And every time, he told himself that the previous failed occasions were dress rehearsals for the real thing.

Enough thinking: it would delay things. He’d had more than enough time to think, the last time… they’d insisted on counselling at the hospital for a while afterwards. Like he was going to tell them anything. So they’d agreed a compromise: they’d carry on forcing Greg to sit in the same room as that agonisingly sympathetic guy for a couple of hours a week, and Greg could pretend to be thinking about what had happened. Except, of course, he wasn’t pretending: not after the first few weeks.

All of that thinking had only strengthened his resolve, though, and - DAMN – he was thinking again. What had he fucking said about thinking?

The sudden burst of anger provided the momentum he needed to press the clean, soft sigh of metal against his raw skin. He closed his eyes, and was pleased to find he could still imagine the crimson blood reluctantly blooming in endlessly intricate patterns against the rough weave of his jeans. He fought the urge to open his eyes; it would dispel the illusion. The reality was that blood seeped out of the deepening cuts almost entirely unpoetically. He hated it – always had – but he’d long ago realised that you can live with dignity – you can’t die with it too.

That explained the conspicuous absence of any form of note. Sure, he’d drafted hundreds of suicide notes when he was about twelve. But fifteen is practically adult. And it’s only the really stupid kids who feel the need to explain themselves; lift their consciences, so that they can take their own self-pitying, self-obsessed lives guilt-free.

That was what Nathan had done. Three years ago now, but still…. And he’d…they’d both been thirteen. And Greg had watched it all happening from the sidelines.

Nothing had been the same. The father had killed himself – three months ago now. The mother was coping, as far as he knew. But then, what did he know? As far as he’d been concerned, before he’d died, Nathan had just been another guy to Greg, albeit a guy with the hollow, haunted eyes that Greg recognised all too well. A guy – no, a boy – nonetheless. They’d exchanged maybe a dozen words. There was no friendship between them. Things categorically did NOT have to change.

Greg smiled to himself. 14th February. Three years to the day. Just so that nobody thought he’d just flipped out, he’d saved himself for today. Sixth time lucky? Maybe the Gods would see fit to conjure themselves into existence and let him see it through to the end this time.

He was, disappointingly, acutely aware of his surroundings. He gave up and opened his eyes. It was as he’d expected: blood was dripping morosely onto the threadbare carpet, and had made a mess of the desk. God, he couldn’t even be original. Tried this method twice before, to no avail (but he could always hope).

There was a surprising amount there… it surely wasn’t right that he should still be able to discern his surroundings with such clarity? But there it all was, exactly as he knew it should be. The blue-grey desks were scattered around the room in a ‘non-intimidating’ manner, along with the hotchpotch of chairs. It suddenly struck him that there would be a strange occult symbol staring back at him from the room’s eccentric layout if he could float up to the ceiling and gaze down, and he chuckled to himself.

He briefly considered tidying Mr Daley’s desk, but dismissed it – he’d get blood everywhere, and it would just wear him out. This was his time now: he was going to spend it how he wanted.

So he stayed put, reclining in his chair and gazing blankly at the ceiling. Not long now, he felt sure, and he relaxed in anticipation of his escape. There was no noise except for the rasping of his own laboured breathing, and the familiar rushing, swirling noises that occupied his head. This lesson didn’t end for nearly half an hour; he had ages.

He closed his eyes. He’d never been very good at falling asleep with his eyes open, no matter how tired he was – and he was suddenly exhausted. He bit back the word ‘drained’ because he didn’t have the energy to laugh. So he waited patiently.

The next thing he knew, there were things that should not have been happening. There were heavy footfalls in the corridor outside, and that unmistakeable clearing of the throat. The door clicked open, and the light duly flickered on. Greg could only distinguish fuzzy shapes blocking the intense glare of the strip lighting, but he knew it was over at last.

“Shit. Shit.” He’d been found. That voice, musical even now…

He was hauled roughly into a sitting position, his cheeks slapped with that unwieldy force that only accompanies blind panic.

“Greg, open your eyes. Look at me. Look-“

It took almost all of his effort for Greg to wrench his eyes open, but he could see Mr Daley more clearly now. Though he seemed to be refusing to stay in focus. He gripped both of Greg’s wrists tightly: crushingly. Te agony was immense – the tang of warm skin against his already-smarting flesh was almost unbearable.

He let go as quickly as he’d grasped on, and checked the bleeding.

“Greg, do not do anything. I’m calling an ambulance now. I’m just on the other side of the room.” He backed away, grabbed the phone from its hook on the wall, and dialled. It took an age to get through; when he did, he spoke quietly and urgently. Then he came back, and resumed that unyielding grasp of Greg’s wrists, every year; every thought whispering on is face in sharp relief.

And the images began to pitch and toss, rocking and swaying and tumbling into one another. The long-awaited blackness descended. He no longer cared – about anything. He waited, simply, for the end.

Mr Daley was too late. He had to be. The only things left in Greg’s universe were the warm firm grasp and the plunge into an unprecedented calm.