Work Text:
They're talking again. The voices in your head are stirring, although it's really only one voice so you're not quite sure why the plural sounded right. It's that little incessant nagging that you can't deny, flickering to life in your brain and quickly advancing through your thoughts, sounding over the music in your headphones.
God, what a stupid mistake. How could you do that to them?
It's audible, now, and you turn the volume up as far as you're willing to, but it changes nothing, and you know that.
Why did you think that would make a difference? Great, now you're trying to hide from the truth. Add that to the list.
You know it's right, the hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach confirming its correctness. Things slow down as you tentatively turn off the music, slipping your headphones to your neck. You wind up burying your head in your hands, pulling lightly at your hair.
Yeah, because that's helping. God, you did nothing but screw up out there. Tried to play the cool kid, did nothing but let people down. Just like before, right? Just like every single other time you step outside?
Fuck, you're pathetic.
So pathetic you're drowning in your own misery. Aren't you supposed to be strong? This is ridiculous.
Unconsciously, you bite your lower lip, gnawing on it as you twist your head and drop the headphones to the bed sheets. The pain quiets the voice, slightly, but it's still loud and clear over any thoughts of protest or argument you might have.
It's not like you can deny it. You're just a big fuckup, that's all you amount to, and you know it. God, you don't deserve to be around these people.
You think of your friends, the people that tell you you're awesome and cool and a great friend.
They don't know anything about you. Guess whose fault that is?
You think of what they would say if you weren't there, if Jade came back and found you gone from their lives, no longer to be a waste of space.
Oh sure, they'd be sad for a little while, but they'd get over it. It'd be better for everyone if you were gone; hell, you're the only one who can't get over anything. Stupid.
You think of the fact that no one's here right now, and Jade won't be back for a little while yet.
Go on, do it. Make things better for once in your stupid miserable life.
Trembling, you stand up, breathing heavier than you'd like. You glance out the window at the blue sky and apartment buildings and sigh, tiny tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You ignore them, walking to a familiar cabinet in your room, hand going to the handle with practiced ease.
You can't do it. You can't even fucking kill yourself. God you're weak. You really are completely worthless, you know that? You deserve to die.
And you know the voice is right, know it's only telling you the truth, but fuck, your weakness is overwhelming and you can't go through with the ultimate pain. Instead, you pull open the drawer and reach to the back, removing the hidden razor blade and shutting the wood back.
At least you have a little sense. You don't deserve to live, but if you're going to be so fucking weak as to keep fucking up, to keep making everyone completely miserable, then you can at least have the common decency to punish yourself for your wrongs. Don't wander around like you haven't done anything wrong.
The bathroom door beckons and you step inside, shutting it behind you and sitting down on the toilet lid. There's enough light through the window, and you don't bother to lock the door this time since Jade won't be here. You'll be done and fixed up before she gets home.
If you ever bother to do it, that is. God, you're such a damn loser.
You take deep breaths to calm yourself, shaking as the metal in your hands glints from sunlight and leaves flickering afterimages on the walls. Your arm turns over and you pull up your shirt sleeve to reveal the few remaining scars from the last time you were here, almost completely healed.
So fucking pretentious. Like you actually haven't fucked up. You've been pretending everything was fine, haven't you? That's another thing you can't do right, punish yourself properly.
The blade touches your skin between your elbow and wrist and you swallow hard, frozen at the feel of the slight pressure from your fingers, a tincture of paranoia still present that begs you not to do this, it's going to hurt-
No fucking shit it's going to hurt, what do you think the damn point is-
A gasp comes from your throat as the razor scratches through your skin, leaving a straight mark across your flesh that quickly starts to bleed. It's burning, painful, but it feels like so much relief, quieting down the urges and voices that can't seem to leave you alone. The sight of the oozing blood is like glimpsing into heaven, though some pleading thought proclaims it's closer to hell. Purgatory, then. At least your sins are washing away.
From just that? That's supposed to be enough of an absolution?
There's another slash on your arm and tears work their way out of your eyes, tracing down your cheeks. They have no place here. It's euphoria, the pain and dripping, the bloody miracle of silence in your head and temporary relief from everything you've done wrong. And of course, you've done everything wrong.
God knows you can't do anything right.
It crosses your mind to cut again and you do, cutting stripes across your arm in a zigzag pattern until your entire arm is bleeding, the quickness of the multiple motions causing you to cry out in pain.
Oh, and now you can't even enjoy this? What do you think you're fucking entitled to now?
All the cuts at once are burning and stinging with the greatest worst feeling in the world, and you don't understand why the voice is still there, come on shouldn't it be happy-
Shouldn't you be fucking happy? You're a piece of shit; you know this won't make it stop. You're the problem.
But cutting is your release, cutting is your relief, cutting is your favorite pastime as hard as it's been to slip it past your friends, and you wonder if maybe you just haven't cut enough.
Can't even cut properly. God, there really is nothing you can do right, is there? You're like a human fuckup machine. I'm surprised your friends haven't pointed it out yet, it's not like you're able to hide it when you're too busy fucking up. Worthless.
You've never cut your wrists before, because you can't hide that. But it occurs to you there's an elbow available, and you pause, imagining how sweet the pain would feel from opening so many veins at once.
Because slicing your whole arm to shreds isn't good enough for you. Demanding bastard.
It worries you that you're already feeling lightheaded, but it worries you more that the high's wearing off. You're still bleeding, still burning, but it isn't euphoria any more, and before you completely realize what you're doing the razor blade is on your elbow, caressing the important blood vessels underneath the skin. You watch them pinch as you press down and imagine cutting deep, letting the blood flow, maybe passing out from more the sheer paradise than the actual blood loss-
Can you not even make up your mind? Do it. Stop hesitating, that's just another thing that makes you a horrible person that deserves all of this and more.
You almost press down, breathing shallow and fast, are you really about to do this-
Fucking do it. It's what's right.
A door sounds and you gasp, jerking the blade away. You can hear her downstairs, Jade is home, you scramble to reach the gauze but freeze as you realize there's no way you can get it in time, there's no covering this, she's going to know-
You're fucking up again, you don't want them to know this shit, can't even hide what you do from them, you know how much this is going to hurt her-
She's coming up the stairs and you can hear her voice and you can't move, you want to run or something but there's nowhere to go and you still need that high that you've lost and fuck fuck fuck you just want to cut again-
God damn it, you're so fucking worthless, you can't even do anything now-
Jade is at the door and you want to die, you want to slit your wrists and your throat and drown in burning water because it's what's right-
YOU PIECE OF SHIT, DIE.
"Dave?"
Jade's voice is so quiet, so scared, that you aren't even sure you heard it. You can't bring yourself to look at her, arm still dripping useless blood onto the tile floor, shaking fingers still clutching the precious razor blade. The tears in your eyes have a purpose, now, because you're more afraid than you've ever been in your entire life as Jade quietly steps next to you, her silence making you tremble all the more. You want her to say something, to berate you like you deserve, to do something, anything, other than just stand there.
Jade takes the blade from your hand, pushing your shades up, and at the sight of her heartbroken face you finally break and cry.