Work Text:
Pick. Watch. Next.
Scratch. Wait. Grin. Cry.
Tyler Joseph stared in disgust for the umpteenth time at his revolting body. His pale, uneven skin tones encased his disproportionate body. His legs far too thin and bony for his slight pudge that hung over the lip of his narrow waist. Arms swung lanky and awkward at his sides, a severe tan line in the middle of his bicep. The face that stared back had sad eyes, naturally occurring, but to Tyler, they were a result of his sick, depressed mind, just another flaw, this time on the inside.
His back bore scabs, small, etched with a few scratches. Mindless picking and clawing at his shoulder blades. His wrists wore faint scars, some fresher than others. Legs were littered with scabs, in semblance to those on his back. Instead, though, these were not mindless, but quite clear. Anxiousness and irritation forcing him to inflict such ugly spots.
No shorts, Tyler.
No swimming, Tyler.
No T-shirts, Tyler.
Keep smiling, Tyler, your eyes will give you away.
Sometimes, after a shower, or when he was alone in his room, he would scrutinize every mark. Every spot. Just pick at scabs until red seeped out in a neat little circle. He would watch it pool with satisfaction, knowing that another rough spot on his skin was now smooth. Until it began trying to heal again.
But Tyler was impatient. Healing was time and time was slow. Too slow. Too slow to beat his dysphoria towards his skin.
“Dude, how are you wearing that?”
He shrugs as he hides his hands in his sleeves and straightens his jeans for the third time.
The sun beats down hard, but he has trained himself to stay cool in harsh heat. He has trained himself to remind himself that it is worth it, because he is ugly.
“Gym class. Shorts and T-shirt, please, Mr. Joseph.”
A panic shocks through him, his neck burns. He pleads with his eyes, but they only convey their usual sadness. He goes to the locker room and is late to class because he had waited for all the boys to head out first.
He steps outside and stands still where he’s asked to, legs crossed uncomfortably, trying to hide his spots. But they may be looking the other way. Uncross, recross the other direction. But now that leg is exposed. Which one is uglier? Cover that one. But they both are horrific.
He is seen shuffling awkwardly from afar, hands writhing around his wrists.
“A pool party, Tyler. Yes, you will be swimming, duh!”
A quiet ‘no thanks, mom’ as he heads upstairs. A shout at him for being so secluded all the time. He knows it, she doesn’t have to yell. He knows it and he hates it. He hates how all the other boys and girls run and shout on his street, tank tops and shorts in the baking sun. He hates how he used to be one of them until he scratched. Until he watched them in agony as his mindless nails swept over his legs and arms and chest with no intention of stopping. How every little thing made his skin itch and elicit more and more blood pooling down towards his feet, swept away by his killer hands, fingernails stained with red. He hated it, he fucking hated it. He hated how he cried at himself, feeling like he would never be a beautiful person again. He stared in the mirror, sat naked on the floor and just watched himself cry and cry and bleed out of little holes on his legs, chest, and back. He wanted to fucking stop but he couldn’t.
He tried the blade once, over his hips and wrists, but it fucking hurt so much for his weak little mind. But scratching felt good, it relieved. There was no pain, until he bled out over his hands and touched his weeping eyes, where it would burn.
He sat in bed, staring at the wall, and everything would itch. Reach behind the knees and scratch to red lines. Scrape along the wrist, pleading himself to stop, but could not. Cling to his scalp and drag his nails through his hair, wishing it all away, then dragging his bloodied hands over his scrunched face and groan. He cannot stop, he cannot stop he cannot stop he cannotstophecannotstophecannotstop.