Dylon West always wore something over his left wrist.

Whether in the shower, a very public place during peak hours, or in bed with a woman. Whether a sports band or a decorative arm warmer that he so loved to wear. It held a secret, one he'd be loathe to explain to others. As far as anyone needed to know, he was a happy well adjusted young man with an obsessive addiction to sex.

That's all they needed to know.

Dylon kept in the company of others, and left little time to himself. He hated time by himself. With others, he didn't look inside. With others, he felt alive and full of vigor. Alone, he felt hollow, like a light was draining out of his soul.

He kept his circumstances for joining Deus vague, and was glad he'd been able to skirt around it so long. As he read Twitter dealings of the day, a disturbing line of conversation made his heart clench and his breath thin. The topic was the selfishness of taking one's own life.

He felt hot, uncomfortably hot, yet he was just dressed in a tank top and jeans. Nothing horribly suffocating. Yet he felt he might be. He ought to have closed the phone and tried to forget it. But it lingered. Dylon didn't feel shame for a great many things. But this? This he did.

The circumstances that led to the first attempt on his own life, before Deus of course, could be seen as petty to many. To him, it had meant everything. He'd done poorly in college; flunked out, actually. The disappointment in his parent's eyes had shredded him inside. He'd been told he did not take his schooling seriously enough. Parties and socializing had ruined him, they said. But those things had been the only thing that kept him sane through all his hardship in college.
He'd realized he was not the genius he made himself out to be to his parents. High School had been a small challenge, but believing he could succeed at Robotic Engineering? Just because he enjoyed tinkering with small electronics now and then...

So yes, he'd distracted his failures with pleasure and company. And now he was being reprimanded for it, even though those parties and one night stands had made him feel better.

Weeks passed, and his parents would not let him live it down.

So he tried to find a job and move out. He'd thought it would be simple. But it was near impossible. Job hunting was tedious and alarmingly impossible. Part time jobs that he could not hope to brag about or even afford a room with. And of course, since he was not in school and didn't hold a degree, his parents did not approve. Did not let up.

It was in a dirty room in the slums of Toronto, in a house owned by several others who held loud and obnoxious parties and dealt unscrupulous pass times outside his door, that he first succumbed to darker thoughts he always tried to push away. He took a razor to his wrist and pleaded for death. An escape from shame.

Waking up in a hospital, he thought about what he'd done and how he got there. He was yelled at, screamed at, that he was selfish. Petty. Juvenile. He supposed they were right. The reasoning for trying to kill himself was indeed stupid. He knew that. But it didn't stop the hurt, the pain of simply existing in a life of failure and shame. To live every minute hating himself and his circumstances.

His parents no longer wanted anything to do with him. His sisters no longer called. He wanted to try a second time right then and there.

But he sucked it up. He plastered on a fake smile and tried again to become a member of society.

He held a few part time jobs dishwashing and waiting tables. Social jobs. Being social stopped him from hating himself. Interacting with others kept him sane. As always.

But he had a hard time keeping jobs.

He DJ'd at night, at various clubs. This had him up very late, and he left so little time for sleep. So little time to rest. So he'd sleep in, and he was late far too many times. The clubs he DJ'd at often dropped him in favour of other talent. He didn't claim to be talented, of course. It was a hobby only. And most times he wasn't even paid.

But he was not able to afford a small, dingy room in a less than habitable house. No family, no job he could be proud of. Never mind the odd shadows and happenings that plagued his mental tolerance since he was young, which also aided in his unstable moods at work.

His mind was shot. And one more roommate's party going on too loud and too late while he tried to find sleep shot the last of his senses and nerves.

He was alone, miserable, and he had no future here.

He ran from the house. He ran until he found a tall enough building that allowed him to sneak up to the very top level. Up on the roof, he stared down at the bustling city below. The air would have been sobering, this high up. But below he saw people living their lives. Successful, amazing lives. Even the building he stood upon was just so amazing in comparison to the slum he'd been in.

He envied them. He would never be them.

Again, he knew he was being petty. But every small problem always seemed so big inside his heart. So dire, and so painful that breathing with his own lungs felt like knives in his heart.

He sobbed, knowing, knowing, that there was nothing he could ever do to feel right. All he wanted was to be of use. To feel that what he did was important. To feel he belonged. Actually, really, what did he know of what he needed? All he knew, was that living hurt too much to bear anymore.

Goodbye to his sisters. His family. He was sorry he was such a sham of a son and brother.

He moved, and let go of the railing.

Someone caught his arm.