Chapter Text
The blade against his skin is a familiar feeling. As blood drips down his arm, leaving red on his clothes.
Should anyone see him, they will never be able to recover. He can’t stop crying as tears stream down his cheeks; the thought of everything is overwhelming. What should he do? What should he have done?
He faces the mirror with the blade in his hand, looking at his pitiful face, being reminded of his own sadness that he can’t seem to get over.
The feeling of his own emotions being drained from him. The fear he’s felt before transcends all the time that has passed before him.
The previous scars on his arms are bold in his own blood.
The mix of pleasure and pain he’s receiving is immense.
The tears unending as he reminds him self of how he’s unfit to live any longer, he tries to remember the words of his own savior, but then only to think of how he’s basically responsible for Corazon’s death.
His fist slammed against the door, and he quickly fell to the ground. Covering his face, trying to mask the sadness.
As he thinks to himself, “Why did he have to die? It’s all my fault, I don’t deserve to live”.
The hole of selfishness he dug himself in is too deep to cl out of as he’s unable to face anyone in this sorry state of a man.
The muffled sobs and screams are covered by a towel covered in his own blood from cutting himself just a few seconds ago.
The cold floor against his bare thighs and the cuts burn and hurt to even touch anything besides his own hands.
His gaze was foggy and dark; the only thing covering him from complete exposure was the oversized shirt he had on. As blood stains are present on it too.
The tears of sadness dry slowly as he stops crying. And the look of despair on his face is apparent.
His breathing is heavy, and the overwhelming feeling is taking over. The cuts all over every part of him that wasn’t covered by something.
He looks down with the strength he has left to look at the palm of his hand, only to see a dark shade of red that coats the surface of his wrist to the tips of his fingers.
He reaches for the blood-soaked towel to try to dry up this mess, only to realize it’s much farther away than he originally thought.
Trying to reach for it, he falls over, groaning at the sudden coldness of the tile under him. He manages to get the towel and dries the blood off his hand.
He tries not to pass out as there are still things he needs to do, and opens the cabinet, and he looks for bandages he leaves in there for situations like this one. And once he finds it, he wipes off the remaining blood still all over his thighs, then wraps it with the bandage he looked for.
Every time a new part of the bandage touches him, he moans softly in pain, as the overwhelming feeling of pain is a lot to put on himself suddenly. Once he finishes, he begins to do the same with his arms, and wipes off the blood and tears up a little with the experience.
As the feeling of his open wound is against strangely warm bandages, he finds it a bit pleasant.
As he finishes wrapping his arms and legs in banged, he can see a little bit of blood soaked through. Not even panicked by it, simply accepting of it.
His body lying there on the floor, to tries to get up, but he feels the light of the room he’s in fading.
The sudden unconsciousness is a surprise, but not really. As he figured as much would happen, the bleeding stopped a little after he passed out.
Waking up in the same place after what he thought was a few minutes, but actually a few hours, seeing as it was dark out.
Not feeling as tired as he was before, he tries to get up from where he was lying, noticing the patches of his own blood that were on the floor that he chose to ignore and deal with later.
He can barely stand, never mind walking, but he pushes through, walking to somewhere else. Before falling to his knees, he reaches for the wall for support, then falls completely to the ground. Tears of frustration were pouring from his eyes. Trying to hit the ground out of anger, but too weak to even slightly raise his arm. And the pain doesn’t help, but the funny thing is that he doesn’t even remotely care about the sorry state he put himself in.
Then can’t manage to lift himself off the ground, just choosing to lie there. Maybe the unlucky person will have to deal with him, or maybe they’ll ignore him. It’s not the law that would blame them.
He passed out once more, feeling as if he was too weak to even move himself out of the way.
How funny that is to him, being in the way. It’s not like it’s new to him.
It’s not like he’s ever useful or anything; nobody’s saying “oh, Law, I love that he’s around. He’s such a fun guy!”
Never, he hates himself for how he acts. How gloomy he is, how he looks. He just wants to fix all of it, but he can’t help it; it was how he wanted to be treated when he was younger. But now Law just wants comfort, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it.
☆~*—*~☆
After several hours, he realized he was in his own room. He didn’t know how he got there; he just assumed that at some point, he made his way without falling.
He feels sore all over, and the pain in his thighs is still there. Go figure.
He doesn’t know what to even think about all sorts of things going through his mind, and none at the same time. He feels around his body, seeing what damage may have been done from falling so much.
He’s still in the same clothes as last night, and he lifts his shirt to see his lower chest. He notices bruises all over his sides; he didn’t do that, it was probably from falling so much. He was too weak to even stand, but a ton of factors went into why.
He hasn’t eaten in a few days, by choice.
The pain in his legs was too great to walk and hold his weight, which made him fall.
He just couldn’t manage to move even if he wanted to.
Since all this went into the results of his well-being at the moment, he could only blame himself. No one else was at fault for this, nor should it be anyone else’s problem. The last thing he wants to do is burden others with his own misery.
He slowly sits up in his bed, his ears ringing and his head hurting. He raises a hand to rest his head against it and groans. He decides he needs to push himself through it and fix the sorry state he’s in as of now.
Law gets out of bed to get rid of the blood-stained t-shirt he was wearing, putting on a new one. This one is still big for him; it’s pinkish with hearts on it, reminds him of someone.
He changes the bandages he’s wearing with new ones and wipes off the remaining blood from the previous night. It’d be really bad if they had an enemy attack, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t be able to fight at all.
He’s still dirty, but he can’t do anything about it; he’s still too exhausted. It’s hard for him to move around too much. Shocker.
Law doesn’t care to notice the blood that won’t come off with just a dry towel, and his hair is greasy. Disgusting.
He chooses to lie back down before he hears the voices of his crewmates. It must be at least 6 am. He can’t do anything if they seek him out, as he’s normally up at this time. Which he still is, but he just can’t actually get up. Unfortunate, isn’t it, but before he knows it, Bepo’s already there to just make sure he’s alive since it’s unusual for him.
Bepo calls out for him, and Law responds, saying that he’ll be out soon; it’s not like he has to. But it’s his crew…
Law makes his way to the bathroom to get rid of the rest of the evidence of the actions he committed. Using a wet towel (this time) to clean off the blood.
After managing to get rid of all of it, he doesn’t really mind the disgusting state of his hair. He looks homeless; he has that vibe to him. He was at one point? Guess it counts.
After all, most passing out again, he makes his way back to his room, where he puts on some actual pants and not just whatever Law had on before; he doesn’t remember, nor does he care.
After greeting all his crew who were in the kitchen, he started to make coffee to wake himself up; he clearly needed it.
He’s noticeably weaker when he walks, standing, just even moving around. It seems hard, even an idiot would be able to see that.
His crew doesn’t know about his impulse actions, or so he thinks. Maybe they do, and Law is just unaware.
But they don’t seem to ask him about it, he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t really want them to.
After his coffee is done, he makes his way back to his room.
After he’s behind closed doors, alone. Law sits down on his bed, slowly drinking his coffee. Before he knows it, tears are unexpectedly rolling down his face. He has to put his drink down as his hands are shaking. He feels the urge to hurt himself again, needing relief from the suffering. Law feels as if the struggle without pain is worse than the actual pain itself.
He doesn’t have a blade on hand in his room with him, and going somewhere to get one wouldn’t even be a question.
He needs the sweet sensation of fresh cuts on his skin, the warm feeling of blood traveling down his arm. But unable to reach it, the tears exist on his face. Hot salty tears that Law can taste when the overwhelming about falls from his eyes.
The ever-present feeling of pleasure when he feels the pain he inflicted upon himself. Before long, he was scratching away at cuts from the night before. They begin shedding red once more, no one to stop them.
Law wants to scream out for help, but is unable. He sees himself as unfitting for anyone’s attention. He just wants something; he just wants someone to take care of him. Again.
♡☆~^—^~☆♡
He has lipstick in hand, a dark shade of red. And in the other, a dark blue eyeliner.
He looks at himself in the small mirror he has, as he tries to make it look like someone else’s, but it’s not his own. He couldn’t do that, he’s just scraps of others.
He’s never really used makeup or anything else like that, but he has a few things. Not like he’d tell people that, that’s for him and only him to know.
It’s shameful to him that he just has that in his possession; it’s not like he hasn’t seen other people were stuff like that, but there are only a few. It’s not like it’s a lot either.
He just feels insecure, not really a surprise. That’s why he doesn’t really have a pleasant personality; he doesn’t know where he pulled that from. Nonetheless, it’s there.
Back to attempting to put on lipstick, he really tries not to mess it up. Good for him, he’s not shaking anymore, so Law has pretty steady hands, he normally does. After applying it to his lips, he uses the tip to leave a line from the corner of his mouth to the end of his cheek. He does the same thing with the other side, being careful to make it straight.
After using the eyeliner, he makes an upside-down crown under his left eye, each point of the crown reaching its peak four times.
Doesn’t it sound familiar?
It is, or at least to Law.
Why’d he do this? He’s so stupid… the anxiety that someone will see him is a thought he has, but still trying to remain focused on the task at hand and finish the makeup.
“I miss you, Cora-San…”
Law says to himself while putting down the eyeliner and looking at himself him the mirror, fighting the urge to cry. He doesn’t want to ruin his hard work, nor does he want to be loud.
He feels the tears in his eyes and he wipes them away, the feeling of sadness almost overwhelming…
He lies down on his back, facing the ceiling, and reaches his hand up.
“I don’t think I can do this much longer, Cora-San.”
His whispers to himself, as it’s true. He does have reasons to carry on, like his crew and what Corazon did for him, etc. He doesn’t want to put it all to vain, but he really can’t stand this. He really has done all the things to simulate the feelings of death. But it’s nothing like it.
What should he think? What should he do?
He looks stupid with the makeup he has on, as an outsider of this tragic story wouldn’t get it. He even feels dumb…
“Cora-San, I really don’t know what to do… I-I wish you were still here with me… I-i want to join you, I miss you so dearl,y would you allow me to?”
He sounds stupid, talking to himself and to a dead guy, no less. What a man he is!
He just wants someone to hug him, to love him. Just like Corazon, but who fills that role?
Nobody.
He’s just alone with his struggle with his pain… well, what else could he do? It’s not like it’s anyone else’s problem. He won’t make it anyone’s problem.
He moved his gaze to the blade used to cut himself, and he thought about cutting his neck. He decided against it because he can’t die yet.
He has to wait a little longer.
He still has that makeup on his face; he thinks he looks stupid. He might be right; it’ll be a pain to get it off. He doesn’t know how makeup works, so he’ll probably just end up rubbing it off with something.
His own tears ruin the work he put in. What a shame, well, it’s not like he was going out in that. No one else was going to see him like this, so it doesn’t really matter.
He doesn’t really know what to make of this situation, and he lies still on his back facing the ceiling.