The boy, he was sad. He was lonely. Perhaps he was sad because he was lonely. Perhaps he was lonely because he was sad. For what reason, he did not know. He did not care.
He wasn’t always like that. He wasn’t always that lonely. He wasn’t always that sad. He had happy times, too. Joyous, gleeful, happy times. He had friends. Then, he fell apart.
His friends tried. They tried to fix him back up. They tried picking up all the loose parts and fitting them back into where they belong. They tried to put him back together. They tried.
They began leaving him. They took parts of him with them. Big parts, small parts. Everything. Soon, he was left with nothing. He was nothing.
He knew the problem; he couldn’t face it. He tried solving it with an alternative solution: alcohol. It worked too well.
He was sad. He was lonely. He jumped off to escape it all. He was happy. At last.