A Pen

A worn, damp sheet of notebook paper sat solitary at the young man's feet. He unintentionally crumpled the paper with his foot and looked down. He swallowed deeply as he crouched; slowly picking up the worn sheet between his index and thumb. He turned it over and held back a gasp. It was a note written in, now dried, red ink. He ran his shaky fingers across the barely legible writing.
Some of the note's words were terribly faded but the young man could still make out certain ones: death, hate, sorry.
He stumbled on his feet as realization struck him.
A suicide note.
His dark eyes followed the wobbly lines to the bottom of the page; to the final farewell of the writer.
He held back a moan of horror as he recognized three very familiar letters: his initials.
A hand involuntarily rose to his mouth to hold back the bile threatening to rise. His blood; he'd written this in his own blood.
His hands began to shake as his memories resurfaced: the blood, the agony. He fell to his hands and knees and began to retch.
Inhaling an unsteady breath, he tilted his head up slightly; staring in front of him.
When the image in front of his eyes registered, his eyes grew wide and felt the blood drain from his face.
His arms went lax and he fell, face first, to the floor.
From his position on the ground, he opened his eyes and dared a glance at the figure in the computer chair.
He whimpered inaudibly and closed his eyes; his body going limp.
As the young man lay on the floor, a slow and steady drip echoed about the room. A pale figure sat unmoving in a computer chair, blood dripping from self-inflicted wounds along his wrists, a bloody pen poised in yellowing fingers. A door slammed and a voice called out to unhearing ears; an arm slipped from its resting place and a soft clatter was heard as a bloody pen fell to the ground.

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Kaykay, comments?