Scarred

He sits down on the bed and rests his head against the wall. He is tired, but he can't sleep now. It's six am, and the sunrise light is beginning to seep through the white curtains. He's cold too, shivering in his cotton pyjamas on the frosty November morning. Wriggling sideways, he plucks the corner of the quilt up and covers his bare arms, trying to stay warm. It takes several minutes for his shudders to subside. He sits there for a while, staring into space, thinking about the night before. He went too far, that much is clear. He can tell by the stinging in his left arm. He's been cutting for a while, but never quite so deeply as this. He was overwhelmed by everything, and took the usual direction to try and forget it all. But he wasn't thinking. He cut too deep. He panicked when he saw the blood, forgot for a moment what he should do. Then he remembered, and put pressure on the wounds. It took half an hour to stop the bleeding. He uncovers his arms, rolls up his sleeve, and looked at the ragged gashes in his skin. He begins to shake again. It isn't until the first tear falls that he realises he's crying. He knows why he feels like this. It started when she went away...

I don't really know where this came from. Let me know if you like it and I might carry on :)