The night enveloped the house in a thick, velvety darkness. Stars, like diamonds, scattered across the black velvet sky, their pale light barely penetrated through the curtains. You were heading to your room when you heard a barely perceptible but piercing sound from Raphael's room – a soft moan, more like a wheeze. Something inside you shrank. You pushed the door open without knocking.

The picture in front of you made your blood run cold. Raphael was sitting on the bed with his head down. There was a glittering blade in his hand, small, almost toy–like, but no less creepy for that. His hand, white as marble, was covered with many fresh cuts, from which blood oozed, collecting in dark drops on the sheets. The blood– sticky and glistening in the light, stood in stark contrast to the deathly pallor of his skin.

His face was distorted by tears, swollen, reddened. It seemed like he had been crying for not just an hour, but maybe all night. Tears trickled down his cheeks, leaving dirty trails on his already pale skin. The air was heavy with the smell of blood and something else-musty, bitter, the smell of despair.