It was dark.

It was always dark there.

It was always dark, and cold, and suffocating.

Suffocating silence, constricting lungs, splattered in crimson blood and full of shining glass shards cutting deeper holes into his heart. Every breath fell right through his feet, and he was left gasping for air again.

Why?

How?

What happened for it to come to this?

He didn't know.

He didn't know when that gorgeous laughter spilling from pink lips, painting the air in peaches and pastels, curling into his chest and etching itself there, became mocking, terrifying, and left dread and fear pooling in the crevices of his bones, his little shoulders flinching, small, seamless fingers curling into the fabric of his baggy sweatpants because god forbid he wear shorts.

He didn't know when those breath taking eyes in which he used to find home grew dark, and brutal, and subtly beat him down until he was lying on the floor covered in invisible splotches of black and blue bruises. Hidden red underneath his long sleeved sweaters, sinking through the tiles and begging desperately somewhere locked in his raw throat, for anything to put an end to this.

Put an end to him.

He didn't know when those fingers that used to brush his bangs out of his face, and caress his mochi cheeks, and wash his hair tenderly, massaging his scalp as he dyed the strands his color of choice, became those fingers that yanked at his locks, and gripped at his thighs, and squeezing his arms, and caged him in; danced over his back like he was pressing bleeding threats into his delicate skin.

He didn't know when he stopped floating, stopped flying, stopped seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and started falling, and not in the way that you fall, when you can just get back up again.

This falling was endless, and breathless, and swallowed all of his pleads, and stripped him down to the bone, bones that were unraveling faster and faster and faster, no bottom in sight, no hope of stopping the fall until he stopped himself.

He didn't know when he stopped trusting him, and was left holding onto the hope that one day he would trust him again, and one day he would be loved again, if he just did something right.

But he was tired, and he was afraid.

And he didn't know what to do anymore.

He was never good enough.

So he just kept falling, begging to crash to the bottom, or to disappear altogether.

Anything was better than this.