The boy moaned in agony as his lips ripped apart. The boy writhed in pain as his stomach churned endlessly. He didn't know if he could suffer this hell much longer, nor did he have any desire to. But wait. He did. He loved it. He loved the bittersweet situation that he willingly put himself in. Every second it went on, he loved as much as he loathed. The sensation he would get with each sample of regret. The dopamine rush he would get from pumping his body full. The boy lost all sense of self control as he kept indulging himself in sin. Each time, he knew it was wrong, but each time, he failed to feel any regret.
He should have stopped, but he couldn't. If he could go back in time to change what he did, he would have, for he hadn't a clue that it would end this way. They were so harmless, he thought. There was no way that they would have ended up making him suffer this much pain, or induce such violent vomiting. Oh, how he was wrong. So, so wrong. The regret started to set in.
The boy rolled over in his own retch to wipe his face with his arm as he removed the vile from the wasteland that used to be his lips. A pained groan escaped his face once more as he reached forward with something in his hands. It was the last one, the boy thinks to himself with a haphazard smile on his face. He could no longer worry about when the torture was going to stop. His stopped reaching for whatever it was he was reaching for as the sorrow had hit him. It was over. As quickly as it had started, the sick game of masochism has come to an end. He didn't know why he had felt such sorry, but he did. Perhaps it was something similar to stockholm syndrome. Perhaps he truly is a masochist. He didn't know for sure, but there definitely was sorrow in the boy's heart.
A few minutes had passed since the boy suffered a heavy heart, and the boy had remained stationary. Not because he was still suffering sorrow, but because he was still suffering. However, the boy had decided that it's gone on long enough! He forced himself to lean forward and extend his reach in the same direction. His hand got closer to his goal. The goal in question was a bowl. It seemed as though the boy were trying to place something in the bowl. His hand inched closer and closer until his palm was far enough to drop the item in the bowl.
Mission accomplished.
The boy, weak and decrepit, was no longer able to keep himself up, passed out on the floor, landing right back into his own vomitous matter. His arm had dragged the bowl to the ground, making a loud thud as it's contents spilled all over the floor. This was the last thing the boy heard.
Weeks later, the newspaper headline would read: Police Investigating Boy Found Dead In Vomit And Peanut Shells.