Fiction: With swift, purposeful slices

He laid back on his stiff, uncomfortable mattress, half with shock and half with boredom, staring up at the bright florescent globe clutching the ceiling. The light caused his eyes great strain focusing in and out, but like all things he got used to it. He soon noticed, even admired the glowing fixture's fan blades, constantly circling overhead, like vultures waiting for an opportune moment to feast upon fresh meat.

A slight chill inched its way up his spine as blood began to trickle down his pale, thin arms. Track marks, cigarette burns and other tell tale signs of his brief love affair with life, were washed away by the murky vino pouring from his newly liberated veins.

The light began to blur and he asked himself why do we resort to the most destructive decisions when salvation becomes too far to grasp, what mentality warrants such action? If I can't be God, I can at least be human.

Tears stroked down his ashen face; years of torment locked deep within his heart distilled into those salty droplets running down morose cheeks.

Hatred for his alcoholic father, who had left before his son spoke his first words; the empty house he would return to each evening while his mother worked herself to death making ends meet; the drugs he took to take away the pain but only caused greater turmoil. Everything melted away, it was all purged and for the first time in his life Matthew felt free, happy even; one moment of peace in an otherwise tortured existence. A slight smile broke his porcelain face as he took in one last shallow breath.

Pools of blood continued to gather alongside his weak body like the long, grotesque wings of a fallen angel, spilling over the bed in crimson waterfalls onto the dull shag carpet. The fan blades slowed into a single, flowing form as the lights faded and he gladly let go.