Chapter Text
Zanka knew he shouldn't do it. He hated it. He hated how it tormented his mind, disrupting his thoughts. He hated how his hands twitched in consideration and temptation, succumbing to his mind and not following his body's request. He hated how he liked the feeling of calmness after when he knew no regular person would. He hates it all.
Every. Last. Bit.
But he just couldn't stop, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, he would always find himself opening that drawer at least once a week, and falling back onto his habits.
This time, he paces around his room, doing everything he could to break that cycle. He ran his fingers through his hair, a frustrated noise coming from the back of his throat.
Slamming the side of his fist against his wall, Zanka grits his teeth, biting his lower lip. He knew he would cave by the end of today, he glanced at the drawer another time. I won't open it, he told himself.
He shook his head, his face scrunched. Zanka squeezed his eyes shut and backed away with a sigh. He's better than this, he knows it. There's no need for him to hurt himself. He's perfectly capable of doing anything else, like training or something, but the idle itching feeling and the biting at his lip told him otherwise.
Knowing there's no way for him to stop, he caves. Yanking the desk drawer open, he grabs what he needs before slamming it shut. He huffs as he sits on the edge of his bed, opening the pocket knife.
The metal blade shines in the light, casting a silver glow. He sighs, removing his shirt and placing it next to him. Red lines trace along across his upper arm, standing out from his palish skin tone. Most have healed and are a soft tan, but the rest that scatter across his arm are either faded white scars or dark scabs.
Gnawing at his lips and the inside of his cheek, Zanka aligns the blade against his skin, just a few he tells himself.
How deep would he be able to go before drawing up too much blood? He has drawn blood several times after he worked up the courage to go further than only leaving slightly red itchy marks behind. How deep can he go before it's too much? He knows there's probably some sort of an artery buried somewhere deep beneath his skin, but he's never reached it. How much would he be able to do before someone finds out?
Lines of warm red leak onto his arm, he places the blade down and reaches for a tissue on his nightstand, pressing it on his arm stopping the blood momentarily, he grabs another and wipes the rest that started dripping off his arm. Thankfully, the cuts aren't as deep as he thought, so he just keeps the tissue pressed against his wounds until they stop bleeding.
Tossing the balls of bloody tissue in his trash bin, Zanka comes back to his senses and off the strange yet familiar feeling, realizing just how many marks he left on his arm.
He sucks in a sharp breath after putting his shirt back on, his clothes stinging the open flesh. "Shit. You idiot," he mumbles to himself. He grabbed and closed the knife in his fist, he gripped it until his knuckles turned white, pain from the pocket knife digging into his hands. Glancing down at his hand and the item inside, Zanka raises his arm and chucks it across the room with a frustrated grunt.
The pocket knife strikes the wooden door with a sharp sound, it clatters to the floor, he almost instantly regrets it when he hears knocking on the door a moment later.
"Damn," he whispers, realizing his mistake.
"Zanka? you okay, man? It's pretty late." Enjin says with what seemed like a slightly worried tone.
He stepped over to the door and crouched down to retrieve the knife. Returning the knife to its original drawer, Zanka sighs before speaking up again. "Yeah, um, don't worry. Just dropped something, that's all.”
He hears some sort of response and once he's sure that Enjin has left from outside his door, Zanka curls up on his bed and under his covers. Without too much of a fight, he allows a very familiar sense of shame and guilt start to creep up over him. Why should he be going to the extent of harming himself and lying to Enjin after he had saved him from that well? He didn't want to imagine the look on his face if he ever found out. Would it be like the stares he got back at the Hell Guard when he first picked up Lovely Assistaff? He feels his body shudder at the thought, thankfully, it only takes a bit for his tiredness to wash over him and eventually claim him.
—
He can feel a shudder ripping through his body as he steps into his shower feeling the water hit his back. The warm water seeps into the cracks and crevasses of the carved up skin, causing Zanka to hiss sharply at the painful sensation. He bites his lip in an attempt to keep any sounds of ‘weakness’ from slipping past.
Tears nearly spill, Zanka presses his back against the shower wall before his knees buckle, sliding onto the floor. His shuddering gasps echo through the room, he clutched at his sides and no tears fell. He refused. Just like how he refused to cry in front of his siblings. It didn't matter if they weren't here or how much the feeling suffocated him. He would rather die before shedding a single tear.
And so he sat there, biting his lip, muttering something he didn't even know to himself, digging his nails into his skin.