No one cares. Alan said to himself, sitting at the kitchen table.
My brother has never once told me that he loves me, that he cares about me, anything... I'm just made to feel like some kind of burden. Well, some may say he let Jake and I stay here because he loves us... but no, everyone knows that's not the case. He felt pressured. Charlie has never cared... and then there's Jake. My sweet little Jake. He's becoming more and more like his Uncle Charlie, I'm afraid. Does he even love me anymore? Doubt it. No one does. Here I am, Alan Harper, completely disposable.
He got up and walked over to the drawer where they kept the knives, and pulled one out.
He put the knife to his wrist...
Should I leave a note? ... you know, no, I'm not. I'll leave them with questions, just like I've been left with questions all these years.
He pressed the knife deeply to his wrist, dragging it down, feeling the pain. Pain that was beginning to give way to a more euphoric feeling. He felt the blood trickling down his arm. He watched it for a moment and then proceeded to do the same to the other wrist. With blood trickling down both of his wrists, it was symbolic to him. Symbolic of all the pain, depression, and pent up anger leaving his body. He could barely stand anymore, weakening from losing blood. He hit the floor with a thud as his knees gave out.
Alan laid there in the floor, fading in and out. He knew it wouldn't be long.
Goodbye, world. Thanks for treating me like shit while I was here.