Work Text:
An art knife set.
13 different blades of all shapes and sizes.
Only 5 dollars. What a deal.
They’d be so ashamed of him if they saw him like this.
He should be ashamed.
In the comfort of his own home he’s sat himself on the edge of his bed.
He stares at the set of blades he’d so willingly bought with the express purpose of slicing through his own flesh.
Disgusting.
The package opens with ease, it’s even resealable.
Resealable, so you can use the blades over and over.
Over and over.
He removes a blade.
The blade slants at a steep angle giving a particularly precise tip to the knife.
‘You have a problem.’
He thinks that maybe he’s been the problem to begin with.
He gently pushes the fresh blade into the slot of the handle that was so kindly provided by the kit.
It moves smoothly as it slides into place, the handle tightening around the blade with ease.
Maybe this is just how it’s meant to be.
He looks down to the blade and back up to his arms.
Most of his previously scabbed skin has healed at this point.
Some of the newer scars are left reddened, while the oldest of his scars stare back at him with a sickly white color.
Maybe he’s just like this.
Maybe he’s been fucked up since the beginning.
He raises the knife in hand.
Just to test it.
That's all.
He lightly scratches at the skin on the side of his thumb.
It slides through his skin in small, thin lines.
Small dots of red escape him moments after the initial cuts formed.
He always forgets about how sharp fresh blades are.
He really is a mess.
A mess that those around him feel an obligation to clean.
He never asked them to.
He brushes the blood off of the wounds, watching the way it smears thinly onto the skin he has yet to taint.
They can’t believe he would do this to them.
Why would he be so cruel to them? Does he just not care about how much this hurts them?
What a bastard.
Couldn’t do one thing, just one thing, to make them feel better about themselves.
He really is a monster.
The smell, that familiar scent of metal, sickeningly sweet.
It gives way to that very same craving that haunts him, that feeling that gives way to the shame and guilt of his own depravity. That lust for his own blood that no matter how many cuts he makes, no matter how many ounces of blood he’s shed, no matter how many hours he’s spent on the crude art piece that of his own body, he’s never quite satisfied.
Satiated, for the time being.
But never satisfied.
Never finished.
Always waiting for the next time he comes crawling back to his own instincts.
Selfish.
Can’t he ever care about how much this pains those around him?
Selfish.
He starts with his left arm like always, like it’s a tradition he has to uphold.
He raises the knife,
And yet again he lets it fall.
He lets its sharp edge fall to his arm.
With a quick stroke of the blade against his skin, it slices through him.
Selfish.
A bead of red forms from the wound, pooling at the site of his cut before it spills out, dripping down his arm.
Selfish.
He observes the way the droplet traces down his arm as that craving grows, that need for more.
He needs more.
Selfish.
Within moments, he finds himself pressing the blade down yet again.
Another cut.
And then another.
And another.
And another.
Working his way from the top of his forearm down to just before the beginning of his wrist.
Cuts overlapping each other as they cover every inch of his arm.
Marking him.
Ruining him as physical evidence of just how ruined he is as a person.
Can you even call him a person anymore?
He’s cruel.
He’s a monster.
He’s a mess.
When he settles, satiated by the amount of flesh he’s torn through, he sits there.
He sits there as he watches dozens of trails of that beautiful ichor flow down his tattered arm.
The silence of the room, although it had never left, feels as if it has returned.
His mind feels calm, at peace.
He feels so. . .
He feels.
Without an emotion for him to describe, he focuses on what he is confident he feels.
His arm burns.
It aches and stings, more so than any of the slashes had ever as he had made them.
While the immediate pain was only temporary, the aftermath lingers.
It feels good.
He feels good.
For a moment he feels no shame, no regret.
He feels good.
And that is bad.