Finally, he was alone. It felt like ages since he’d gotten a chance, even though
the clock said it had only been four hours. Only four hours, and he was already
desperate and aching to taste the lingering burn that only a blade could grant
him.
Fumbling, as he always did in the beginning, he brought the razor-blade down
forcefully across his shoulder, making no noise as he felt the sting of the
metal biting into his flesh. Waiting, he would pause between each slash and
carefully monitor the wells of blood springing up behind the first blossom of
exquisite pain. This was about control. It was about needing to feel something,
anything, and being fascinated by the color of blood on pale skin in the
bathroom mirror. He didn't like it, but he was addicted. There had never been a
choice. He would cut, and he would cut deeper, harder, faster, more often, than
each time before. Until the pain consumed him in a bright flood of crimson.
This was his red scream, his bloody cry for help, for intervention. // Notice
me. See bloodstains and pain-filled flinches when you touch me. Fix me. Destroy
me. //
He didn't care anymore. He knew he was killing himself. He knew it wasn't like
building a tolerance, because he only had so much blood to lose.
He was a mess. A pale sleepless wraith with limp cinnamon hair, thin, shaking
hands, and dull violet eyes. The scars were becoming the only substance left to
him. They had already become the only thing worth feeling.
During the day, he would stick his hands into his pockets and feel the bumps of
flesh where gaping wounds were scabbing over. Sometimes he worked his fingers
into the cuts and ended up with stains on his jeans and under his nails.
Sometimes that still scared him, and sometimes it only made him angry. And the
angrier at himself he became, the more helpless he felt, and the more he itched
to control his reality again.
Somehow, no matter how far he pushed the pain, no matter how much he took, it
was never good enough. His scars were never numerous or impressive enough, his
helplessness was total, and the fear was elevating.
He remembered screaming once. He had hidden himself in the bathroom, turned on
the shower, and just slashed without caution. It was an older blade, and the
fear had worn off with use, giving way to uncontrolled hacking. Neat patterns
written on thighs, upper arms, ankles, wrists, ribs, calves. He pause in the
ritual desecration of his body, and simply stared at the bloody mess he had made
of his flesh.
Hesitantly he had wiped away a cooling drop of crimson from his leg and smeared
it across his throat. It looked bright and made his skin glisten oddly in the
steam from the shower. No longer hesitant, he smeared blood from his thigh down
his leg, blending it into the next spill of blood. His fingers were dripping
red, and against his will, they went to his mouth, and he licked them, revolted
by his actions, but unable to stop. He continued spreading the crimson stain
until his entire body was coated, even painting his eyelids and lips with blood.
By the time he was done, the mirror had fogged over completely. He washed his
hands free of the red substance before wiping a hand through the steam. When he
looked at himself, he was unrecognizable. He had become the monster inside of
him. Even his hair was slicked with strands of drying rust.
He screamed then. He couldn’t help it. The screams dissolved into laughter and
finally he was rocking on the floor, tears making pale tracks down painted
crimson cheeks.
That was the truth then. It was all a joke. A joke the world had played on him.
Payback for cheating death, for playing a God with black wings. He didn't know
why the teams were so uneven, but there he was, all alone, fighting the whole of
humanity for what little peace remained true.
Blood.
It was all a fucking joke.