A Tub of Cold Water

The first day of freshman year was the first time I saw him. He was standing only twenty feet from me, his pale jade eyes downcast and roaming the flecks of lively color on the white floor. He was leaning back against the wall with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his stormy grey hoodie, the zipper pulled up to his navel, and beyond that was his wrinkled white V-neck and dark denim straight legs. His hair was a bedridden mess and no hope was evident in the tangled strands of raven curls. His sleeves were pushed up to the middle of his forearms and the dashes that lined all the way up to his elbow were dark reddish brown and crusty with scabs.

His name was Sawyer Beckett. He was suicidal and didn't care who knew.