This is the end, beautiful friend

I can't take it anymore. Tonight, it ends one way or another. I won't be his plaything anymore.
The gaunt figure of a boy, no more than fifteen years old, looked around the dark bedroom. The distinct lack of anything sharp or usable as blunt instrument wasn't going to be a problem anymore. He smiled as his reflection in the mirror.
He forgot. Or perhaps he thought I'd never be able to go through with it.
A fist flying through the air.
A crash resonating loudly through the house.
A bleeding hand, clutching a jagged shard from the shattered mirror.