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As soon as he was relieved of duty for the day, Gaz went straight to his room. He closed the door and locked, then went to his foot locker where he pulled out a first aid kit and set it on the bed. He paced back and forth across the room, breathing in and breathing out at the end of each pass, his eyes never leaving the first aid kit waiting on the mattress.
When he’d completed his route ten times, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, folding it neatly and setting it aside. Then he sat on the bed, posture straight, and lifted the first aid kit into his lap, unzipping it and folding it open. Inside was a small blade–small enough to fit in the palm of his hand–the steel gleaming in the light, blade sharp and well hewn. Gaz pressed the tip against his finger to test it, hissing softly at the ease with which it cut through his skin.
He set the knife to his right, pulling out a roll of gauze, medical tape, a bottle of iodine and a few cotton balls, laying them out neatly on the bed to his left.
As he worked he thought about the events of the day. He’d done something wrong, made some silly error, and had been reprimanded by another senior officer in front of a group of enlisted soldiers. If asked, Gaz couldn’t tell you specifically what he’d done wrong, but whatever it was had resulted in Lieutenant Jackson Franklin O’Donaghue, a visiting officer for another base, tall and thin with a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp eyes, towering over Gaz, hot breath and spittle spraying across Gaz’s face as he’d torn into him.
Once O’Donaghue had exhausted himself and left Gaz feeling horrifically embarrassed, Gaz had touched his hand to his stomach, already thinking about the emptiness of his mind that came with the sharp cut of the blade.
He’d dismissed the soldiers he was training, and went to the bathroom where he curled around the toilet, emptying his stomach of what little was in it until his abdomen ached with dry heaving. The rest of the day had been spent anxiously waiting for an opportunity to get away, to expel the nauseating bad feelings, to empty his brain of everything under the sharp slice of a knife.
Lifting the knife into his hand, Gaz touched his stomach where a series of fine scars decorated the skin in a grid, tracing them with his fingers. It had been a long time since Gaz had cause to do this. Long enough that he thought maybe he didn’t need to keep his little first aid kit tucked away in his footlocker. He swallowed, thinking about the bite and burn of the knife through his skin, steeling himself.
Letting out a long, slow breath, Gaz set the blade against the skin, just above the grid of scars, and drew the blade across, hissing softly, but feeling the tension drain from him as blood began to bead along the wound and drip slowly downward. He focused on the sting on his skin, the slow, warm drip of blood. Then, taking another deep breath, letting it out slowly, he drew the blade against his stomach again, a little above the previous line. This cut was a little deeper–the first one is always the hardest–and the blood began to bead and drip faster, racing toward the waistband of his pants. He caught the blood with one of the cotton balls, wiping the longer drips, but not stemming the flow completely. He could feel the tension of the day continue to drain away as the blood flowed sluggishly from the shallow wounds.
Still, though, it didn’t feel like quite enough.
Once again, Gaz drew in a deep breath, sat up straight, and as he breathed out slowly drew the blade across his skin one more time. He sagged forward at the relief that came with it. He let himself bleed freely for a full minute, only stemming the flow enough to keep it from staining his clothes.
When he felt that the tension had left him completely, that his mind was fuzzy and free of the words of the lieutenant ping ponging around his head, he wiped his stomach carefully, pressing a cotton swab against the more heavily bleeding wounds until the flow became sluggish, then carefully cleaned the cuts with iodine before pressing a square of gauze and securing it with the medical tape.
Methodically he cleaned the edge of the blade, and then one by one set the items back inside the first aid kit, the knife resting on top. He zipped it closed and stood from the bed, biting back a hiss of pain at the stretch of the cuts on his stomach, and returned the kit to his footlocker.
As he pulled his shirt back on, there was a knock at the door. He let out a quiet prayer of thanks that whoever it was hadn’t arrived two minutes earlier. “One second,” he called, working the buttons through the holes and running his hand down the front of his shirt. When he opened the door, Soap was on the other side, leaning against the door jamb.
“Missed you in the mess for dinner. Everything okay?”
Gaz plastered on a smile. “Yeah, everything’s great.”
The other sergeant studied him, and Gaz raised his eyebrows, flattening his lips. “What?”
Soap considered him for another moment before pushing off the door and standing straight. “Nothing.”
“Did you just come by to check on me, or was there something else?”
“Aye, would you mind so much if I just came to check on you?” Soap slung his arm around Gaz’s shoulders and pulled him into an awkward side hug, but released Gaz immediately when he let out a soft hiss of pain. “Och, what’s this? Are you injured? Do I need to take you to medical?”
“It’s nothing,” Gaz said in a rush to reassure the other man.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Soap, yes. Thank you for your concern.” He smoothed his hand down the front of his shirt again, making sure to press gently over the square of gauze to ensure that everything was secure. The last thing he needed was a spot of blood on his shirt to give him away. “What did they serve for dinner tonight?” he asked, changing the subject.