-----Dan's POV-----
The next few moments were a blur. All I knew were tears and the hopeless feeling of nothingness.
He'd gone.
But how long for?
A week? Maybe two at a stretch?
I never meant for this to happen. All I wanted was my Philion. But he was gone now, and there was nothing I could do about it.
It had only been a few minutes but I already missed him. To be fair I missed him when he was here with me too. Phil hadn't been the same since he met her, he just hadn't. She changed him and slowly tore him away from me but I guess it's only because she couldn't bare the thought of him being with anyone else except her. He was her little handbag-boy. She didn't really care for him much, though Phil seemed to care about her a lot, nevertheless.
After a little while of lonely thoughts I got up and dragged myself into the kitchen.
A second after opening the fridge I decided I wasn't very hungry.
I leapt onto the sofa and turned on the telly.
I wasn't in the mood for watching anything.
I grabbed my laptop from the table in front of me and looked online for anything interesting which happened today.
Nothing.
I sighed to myself and wondered into my room. I closed the door softly behind me as I wasn't in the mood for any more loudness. To be with Phil was my only desire but a small voice echoed in my head 'never gonna happen. You're a pathetic loner. You're a faggot(a/n pleeeeeaaaaase don't kill me! I don't have owt against gays please dw, it's just a word I used for Dan to describe himself when he's a little depressed) and no one will ever love you for YOU'
I flopped back onto my bed again and buried my head into my pillow.
Tears began to flurry from my eyes at an uncontrollable speed. My pillow was a sponge, just soaking up my sadness.
'Its your fault Dan. You should have just kept it a secret, then nine of this would have ever happened. You're an ugly, overweight freakshow on legs. Phil could never love an idiot like you.' It stated.
I knew it though, I knew it was true. I knew he'd probably never come back. No one ever did to be honest.
I sat up again, I felt too uncomfortable to do anything. My arms started to itch, my wrists, my waist. I scratched at them but it didn't cure them. I realised what I had to do to be free of it.
I crept into the kitchen and dragged open the top drawer to the left of the sink. My hands scrambled frantically inside for a moment before I found the perfect weapon against myself.
I opened up its blade and let it glide blissfully across my wrist, the memories of Phil were far less painful now. Almost gone.
But as soon as I had cut the fist line the memories' agony grew again. So I pressed it on my wrist and tried again . And again. And again.
I couldn't remember the last time I had done this but it was good. It was a lot better than I had thought it would be. I didn't know when to stop. I couldn't stop.
A few secnds later I was limp on the floor. My last memory was that of my blood as it spurted from my arms and surrounded me in a pool of sticky crimson.
