> A House is not a Home.

>

> Once there was a speck of dust,

> Whose House always wanted him cleaned

> He ran out of love and ran out of trust,

> And didn’t know what life means

>

> So away he ran, away into the snow,

> He’d run from his House and never look back

> But this sad speck of dust had nowhere to go,

> And so he’d go a ways off the track

>

> Off underneath the snowy trees,

> The lonely speck would tread

> And there, underneath the dying trees,

> He’d join them being dead.

>

> His House would never call him filth again.

The suicide note of Cain Peyton, age 17.

----------------------------------------

He found a spot that was as good as any. Cain looked around and took a moment to appreciate the scenery. The muted browns of the trees surrounding him were the only contrast against the velvety snow covering the ground. The only blemish on its pristine surface was the trail of footsteps leading back the way he’d came. He looked up, and saw the winter sky framed against bare branches. After it snowed, the clouds leftover would form a seemingly smooth surface, replacing the sky’s regular matte blue with endless white. That was how it was today. He loved the way the sun glowed through those kinds of clouds; it was closer to his idea of heavenly light than golden rays ever had been.

At least it’s a beautiful day to die.

Cain felt in his coat pocket and retrieved a small folding knife. He unfolded and twirled the familiar blade in his hand, feeling the faux-wood handle against his skin. The synthetic material and cold steel sat comfortably in his palm, having found the perfect place to rest on his hand after years of repeated use. He folded it back up for a moment while he unzipped his coat and slid it off his arms. Once done, he cast the polyester garment to the side, letting it lay in the snow.

The morning’s chill washed over him, penetrating the cotton T-shirt much easier. Cain breathed deeply of the winter air, feeling it gently burn his throat and lungs as it wicked away their moisture. The snow beneath him crunched loudly as he lowered himself to a sitting position. Winter is always so peaceful here. The only sounds here were his own. There was no breeze that stirred the brittle branches overhead, no bird that sang, no squirrel that chittered. Just a single human breathing. The utter stillness of the winter had appealed to Cain for a long while now; it was almost like sensory deprivation in places. It was like the world just fell asleep.

I suppose, from nature’s perspective, winter is a time of death.

He found even that appealing; it aligned with what he had come here to do. Cain unfolded the knife once more, and gazed at its cold surface. Two cold brown eyes gazed back. His eyes darted over to his arm, and he turned it over. Streaks of scar tissue lined the soft flesh, like a ladder leading up to his elbow. Some rungs were almost hidden against his skin, some were white with age, some were fiery pink or red, and a few were still covered in scabs. As he gazed at the myriad scars, a gnawing itch made itself known beneath his skin. It felt like his blood was rushing to the surface, trying to get out.

Cain sighed. He didn’t have to go home anymore. He didn’t have to argue with his mother, get shouted at by his stepfather, or listen to his stepsister bragging to her friends about all the guys she’d slept with. He wouldn’t have to try to keep up with a dysfunctional education system to get a job in an exploitative economy. He didn’t have to worry about politics or taxes or the housing market. He wouldn’t have to listen to teachers nagging him to get his future plan sorted out. All of the daily stresses he’d been living with for so long… didn’t matter now. He could just let it all go with a single stroke.

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His thoughts turned towards his family. His stepfather, he paid little mind to. The man was more of a meat sack than a person; an uncommonly handsome alcoholic who only married his mother for her body and her house. His skull, as far as Cain was concerned, was just there for decoration. His stepsister he was also rather dismissive of. She had the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old, and loved nothing more than making other people feel small. He avoided her as much as possible, much like his stepfather.

Then there was his mom. He could endure the other two, but he had actually loved his mother. The woman who had raised him, who had encouraged all his early attempts at drawing and writing, and hung his masterworks upon the fridge for all to see. The woman who had sung him to sleep and comforted him when he had a nightmare. The woman who had cheated on his father and taken him in the divorce, never bothering to ask him or his sister what they wanted. After they split up, she had started turning to cigarettes and handsome men to fill the void.

When she stopped loving him, it happened slowly. Maybe that was what made it hurt so uniquely.

He shook the thoughts from his head. It was over. He wasn’t going back. Cain Peyton was about to die. There was no point in wasting his final moments thinking about people who didn’t care whether he lived or died. He lifted his arm. He lifted the knife. He was going to go somewhere she couldn’t hurt him anymore. The cold edge pressed up against his wrist, far past where the older scars had stopped. Cain breathed in deep. She couldn’t hurt him anymore. He breathed out. Nobody could hurt him anymore. He breathed in. Nobody.

He breathed out, and the thoughts stopped.

Warm blood splattered across his leg. His arm prickled coldly, as though it were beginning to fall asleep. Cain breathed heavily. It was done now. He began to feel lightheaded, and decided to lay down. The cold seeped into his back and stung at his wound. He managed to calm his breathing. He lay there, staring up at his favorite sky, trying to relax while he waited for death. The only sound to break the winter silence was his own breath. Warmth teased his skin as blood pooled around his wrist. A feeling of wrongness emanated from the skin that had been parted, as though it was mere plastic that had been peeled back. He could feel his pulse throbbing, each beat pushing another drop of blood through the wound.

His vision began to go dark around the edges, and the thoughts returned.

He thought about his father. He hadn’t spiraled out of control like his mother, but he had likewise failed to consider his children. Cain remembered so many times he and Lily had gone out to the backyard to play with the hose just to avoid listening to another shouting match.

“Die, dragon!” Cried the brave knight Lilicus.

“Foolish knight, I am unbeatable!” Roared a dastardly dragon.

Cain’s vision was getting blurry, and he sank deeper into his memory.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up, Can?”

“Being a chef sounds cool. Then I could make us yummy things to eat every day!”

“And cake!”

“That’s for bakers.”

“I want cake!”

“Okay, fine, I’ll be a baker!”

It struck Cain that times spent with his sister were the only happy memories he could think of. Everything else had hurt feelings tied to it now.

“Hey Cain,” his sister greeted him again. “Mom treating you alright?”

“Yeah, she’s been fine. Started smoking, but otherwise she seems to be holding up. How’s dad?”

“Eh, nothing new. Besides a girlfriend, of course. He can’t seem to keep those very long.”

“Have you been getting on okay in school?”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to ask me every — oh, sorry, dad’s calling me. I’ve got to go.”

“Bye.”

Lily wasn’t supposed to be allowed to call him after his mother lost visitation rights. That was the last time he got to talk to her. He had no idea how she’d been doing for the last five years all because of their parents’ selfishness. As the last light faded from his view, all he could feel was resentment. If you didn’t have the capacity to love us, you shouldn’t have had us.

Cain breathed out, and couldn’t find the strength to breathe in again. He felt very cold. Then the cold felt very far away.