"Johnny," she said.
"Yes?"
"You'll never make it..."
He looked down at his sneakers. There was still a little mud caked along the sides. He could hear them coming up the stairs. Their footfalls were getting closer.
"I know," he said.
He drew the blade across his wrist without hesitation. He made the cuts vertical, like a suicidal with purpose.
This wouldn't stop them, he knew, but it would buy him some time.
Colder. It's getting colder now.
He was always a quiet boy. Always kept to himself.
Never got too attached.
That kind of thing could get a guy killed.
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