Death Of An 11-old

The boy sat on the floor in his bedroom, it was dark and gloomy, and clothes and other things were on the floor. He was but 11, but sitting with a dozen small white pills in his hand. Were they candy, or maybe something else?
The boy got called names in school: gay, faggot, pussy, but he didn't even understand what they meant. He got beaten by the other kids, pushed up walls, fists in stomach and face. He did not know how many times he "had fell down the stairs".
He looked under his sleeve, so many scars, they went over each other, one every day in 2 years, that became a lot, so he also had scars across his back and legs.
But worse was the scars inside, the ones that would never fade even with surgery, the ones he'd have his entire life. Or maybe not.
He looked down at the white pills. Would they not be enough?
He sat there for a while, wondering what would happen? Would he go to heaven and be with God as his parents said what would happen if you died? Or had he been a bad person so he'd go hell, not that he could see the difference between that and what happened to him now. Or would everything just become dark, no light or darkness, no people or animals. Just darkness. That sounded tempting, to be alone. He had been it for so long, why not forever? And there he wouldn't have to worry about school tomorrow, what the other ones would say to him, what bodypart they'd hurt. It was often the heart.
The pills tasted bitter and sinister. He took all of them on the same time. Swallowed. It took about 30 seconds, then he started to shake uncontrollable, blood sprayed the floor from his coughing. He fell down on his back, regretting but on the same time happy for what he done.
But that didn't stop him for feeling scared. So scared he lost feeling everywhere, or was that the pills?
But then the fear vanished, in fact everything vanished. His family, his home, his school, his teachers, the awful kids.
And he went to another place, just 11 years old.