Part Five- Last Curtain With no Applause

He caught up to the girl he had paid-off before. "Sorry about that, but I figured you found her," she apologized, a bit frightened. He did have that effect on some, but he ignored it. "It's alright, I just have one more question, it doesn't matter if you don't know the answer. Do you happen to know where she lives? Or a phone number?" he asked, a bit frantically. She shook her head. "Sorry," she again apologized. Michael shrugged and waved her off briefly as he readjusted his backpack and boarded the school bus.

He let the phone ring at least eight times. He tapped his foot impatiently, closing the phone book and putting it back on a shelf. Finally, Michael heard a click on the other line. There was a pause before a groggy "hello?" came from Naomi. "Are you okay?" he immediately asked worriedly. Another pause. "No," she answered, sniffing. "I'm coming to get you," he told her, but she immediately told him not to. "That wouldn't be a good idea."
"What? Why?"

He could hear her sighing, perhaps struggling for breath. There was music playing in the background. "It's just so hard now… so I think I'll… stop…" she explained slowly. There was almost no emotion in her voice. "Naomi, what are you doing?" Michael asked cautiously. "They never notice when the kitchen knives go missing…" she remarked thoughtfully. Michael would have dropped the phone then and there had he not been paralyzed from a mixture of shock and fear. "Don't do anything- just wait," he quickly instructed, hands now shaking. He quickly hung up the phone and ran downstairs, grabbing his foster father's cell phone as he ran through the front door. He fumbled to press the three digits as he sped as fast as he could down the street on his skateboard.

There were no cars in the driveway. So convenient too. Michael busted through the front door of the small house, huffing. He could hear a stereo and headed down a hall to where he hoped Naomi's room was.
He didn't want to see her like that. Curled up on her bed and hugging her arm to her chest where a red stain had formed, it was just as he thought. "Oh my god," he whispered to himself, almost breathless. At first glance it seemed he was too late. A knife with red smudges on the edges was laying on the floor beside the bed beside a cup with red also on the sides. Immediately he stumbled over and leaned over the bed. He put his arms carefully behind her back and propped up her head. He could feel a heartbeat, and he saw shallow breathing. Her face was pale as a ghost, and there was a fog coming over her blue eyes. "Naomi? Naomi!" he almost yelled, completely helpless and no idea what he was going to do. Her wrist turned over a bit and he could see the deep slices into the flesh. There was still a steady flow of blood. "Michael…" he heard a sigh of his name. A bit of hope sparked, as she was still conscious. "Don't worry, the ambulance is coming," he assured, and she shook her head. She was unable to make eye contact. "Silly… don't you see? I'm dead," she struggled to say. "Why? Why are you doing this?" he asked, a bit of anger now seeping in, "How could you be so selfish?" Tears were coming to his eyes. He'd never wanted to be in this situation again. "Selfish? Funny… I figured I was doing everyone a favor," she tilted her head a bit to look at him. "You have to save your energy, please don't speak anymore," Michael pleaded. She held a bloodied finger to his cheek and wiped away a tear. She did what he asked and spoke no more for the moment, but she lifted herself just enough for her lips to reach his for a moment with now closed eyes. "It's hopeless. None of it is worth it…" she breathed, allowing herself to relax into his arms.
He heard sirens over the music, but none of it mattered. He saw her slipping now, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. There was a bloodlike taste on his lips, but that didn't matter either. A door opening, rushed footsteps, nothing at all. The door opened, two men separated them both. Michael stumbled backward, knocking over the cup on the floor. There was now Naomi's blood spilled on the carpet from it. They picked her up and carried her out, alerting the rest of their team that there was no pulse. Michael was left alone for what seemed like an eternity. He could recognize the song playing on the stereo. System of a Down's 'Streamline' screamed goodbyes to Naomi. He noticed something on her computer. Words were written in a Notepad document brought up on the screen. There were bits of red on the keyboard as well.
I'm glad I could speak to you, but I'm far beyond reach. I'm glad you tried to help me, but I'm far beyond repair. I see now all is in vain, and I am only a complication. Don't think it your fault. I finally got up the courage to put myself out of everyone's misery. Don't mourn for me, as I have done enough for myself. I just wish you could have loved me as I did you.
All my dead and dried heart,
Naomi Marie Welch.'

"There's another kid in there. I think he's the one who called," someone said. "Well, get him out of there you fool!" another barked. They came back for him, helping him to his feet. They had him watch as they raised a body bag into the back of an ambulance. A hand patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Sorry you had to see all that… there was really nothing anyone could do," hollow words tried to console him. Michael was speechless. "We're going to have to ask you to come along with us," he added. How could he refuse? He had no other choice. Naomi was gone, and they were right: there was nothing anyone could do about it. Her last words echoed in his mind, and he debated the truth of it. Was it all truly hopeless? Was none of it worth it?

AN: My god... I never knew I was capable of writing such a cryptic story. But, there you have it. No happy ending, no true love that prevails- only the sad truth. This story was based on... nothing. I have no idea how my mind produce this, but I know I like it in some strange sort of way. I must say this is my favorite yet. Please, review, I would love to know how to improve, or just your thoughts of it. Or thoughts of my sanity, whichever.