Character Development- Stubborn

Jackson Graham had never enjoyed school, and school didn't really appreciate him, either. He wasn't the most responsible guy around, and in classes he sat slack-jawed with his fist supporting the weight of his skull. He hadn't always been like this, though; he used to be a fairly good student. But the reason that he had snowballed into his empty-headed, lazy shell was put into action by his own procrastination and stubbornness.
"Come on mom, you do this every god damn day!" Jackson opened a Twinkie packet with his teeth and spit the wrapper into the trash, hurling his backpack onto the ground. "I'll do my homework after I play just a couple matches on Call of Duty, Matt is only online for like, two hours!" Crumbs sprayed from his mouth that hun open in exasperation, landing on the recently-mopped floor. Jackson stormed off to his xbox and played for five hours straight, not once stopping to think about the six page essay that was due the following morning. The next day, the routine continued and his grade dropped slowly into the abyss of his barren mind.
He continued to live through the eyes of Ezio and Commando Dom, never taking his gaze away from the rectangular, glowing entity that was his television. His xbox was never turned off, and he was never away from that plastic, cubic friend of his. His eyes had been told to never blink, and he forced them to obey his commands. Although his progress reports mocked him, he knew that the only A he needed was on his controller.
However, his own stubbornness eventually became the death of him.
"Mom, give it back! This is totally unfair, you can't do this!" He clawed at the hands that pulled away his box of joy, and he melted before his mother as she kidnapped it so coldheartedly. His grades would still not increase, and he remained stubborn as a jackass, but he knew somewhere in his rotten, blackened brain that he would never see his beloved games again.

Last Breath (150 Word Story)

Talon knelt down on the side of the road, blood dripping from his chest where the bullet had hit him. He clutched the wound and stared at his hand in horror, a thick coating of blood encasing his grip. The grimy slush below him turned red slowly as he choked and spattered crimson pots onto the snowy canvas. 'Let it all end,' he thought, and shakily grasped for the knife he had in his pocket, flicking the blade out of its shell. His eyelids closed in sadness and regret as his jaw clenched, waiting for the self-inflicted blow to free him. With a single, jerking motion of his arm, he brought death to his chest, and ribbons of blood celebrated their freedom from life. Falling over onto his back and gazing at his last breath in the cold night air of winter, his eyes shut for the final time.