all tom wanted was to be loved.

all tom needed to be was loved.

he longed for three words directed to him.

those three words to be "i love you."

that only happened in his wildest dreams. never would it happen to him actually.

nobody loved tom. his parents ditched him two years ago when he was 17, leaving him out on the streets with a small sum of money. his siblings never liked him. they called him a mistake, a failed abortion. tom never had friends, the only thing close was a boy from the internet that lived thousands of miles away in california. tom never talked to him anymore.

that's how tom got here. in his little dark, cramped apartment with his head in his hands, staring at two items that could change his life.

a phone and a small handgun.

one item could save his life, and the other could end it. tom wanted both to happen. he wanted to live, to see what happened next in his uneventful life. but he always wanted to leave, just walk out the door. but of course it wasnt as simple as that.

he never had a purpose on the earth.

"only people with a reason deserve to be here."

the words repeated in his mind, the one of a small amount phrases that would be engraved in his mind for as long as he exsisted.

"my mom works at the hotline if you need help."

another phrase, one that represented the positive side of toms thoughts. part of a conversation that he once had with the california boy.

tom vaguely remembered like the conversation had only happened a couple of minutes ago. it was probably the only thing that kept him alive. it was one time someone actually cared about him. actually gave a shit about him.

the thoughts grow into something worse, its like i cant stop it. i cant stop cutting, i cant stop thinking.

/

my mom works at the hotline if you need help.

/

i think i can make it on my own.

little did tom know, he couldn't make it on his own. the little red lines littered his arms like incarnadine painted lines on an artist's portrait. back then when the thoughts first made their arrival into his mind, he cut maybe once every couple of months. the first would heal, then another would appear.

that was back then.

this is now.

now he only cuts when he feels useless.

he always feels useless.

snapping out of his thoughts, tom focused back on the phone and the gun. he lifted his head from his right hand, putting pressure on his left arm. tom reached for the gun, curling his index finger around the trigger.

tom observed it like a little kid getting a new toy, except less excited. he looked at it from all angles like he wanted it to be the last thing he saw before he died.

all tom wanted to see before he died was someone who loved him.

but that would never happen. no one loved him. even his neighbors probably didn't even know of his exsistance.

tom lifted the gun to the side of his head, memories rushing through his mind. for example, when he was a kid. when his parents and family actually loved him.

toms father and mother walked him down the street, holding his hands as he trotted down the street.

it was fathers day. tom sat at the table, sloppily coloring a card he made for his father. "hape fathirs da" it read at the top. below it was two stick figures holding hands. it was thomas and his father.

his brother pushed tom on the swing set as tom chirped, "higher!"

his finger rested on the trigger. tom had the urge to just pull it, the urge to say goodbye to everything and everyone he knew.

but this is not how tom wanted it to end.

he dropped the gun and it hit the carpeted floor with a quiet thump. tom put his shaky hands in front of his eyes, imagining what they would look like if he had carried out his plan involving the gun.

the right hand would still be tightly holding onto the gun, and the left would be covered in crimson red liquids.

his hands scrambled for the phone, searching for it like a blind man. tom never kept the lights on because he usually just sat in silence. no need to waste electricity, even when you have barely enough money to pay the bill.

finally finding it, tom grasped it and clicked the home button, making it turn on. tom shielded his eyes from the brightness. peeking through a little slit in his fingers, he managed to turn the brightness down. lowering his hands, he clicked the phone icon, bringing him to a keypad.

clueless.

tom was clueless.

who was he going to call?

the only contact he had was the kid from california, and the last time he called him was maybe a year and a half ago. he didnt even answer.

no one was there for him.

for him to talk to.

to listen to him.

to relate to him.

to like him.

to love him.

looking around at the desk tom was sitting at, he saw a small paper with numbers scribbled onto it. he picked it up, scanning it with his eyes. he turned his phone screen to it, shining the light on it. words were engraved into the corner.

tom squinted, straining to read it.

it read,

suicide hotline.

why didnt tom think of that himself? that is where he can find people to talk to. people that would be willing to listen to his shenanigans.

memorizing the number, he dialed it into the phone.

it rang for a couple seconds until someone with a thick, calming, unknown accent answered.

"greetings, this is the suicide prevention hotline, are you okay?"