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He stared at himself in the fractured bathroom mirror. Spiderweb cracks cut through Steven’s reflection, spreading outwards from the damaged center. He hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror in quite some time.
After his corruption, much like the other corrupted Gems, he was left with scars. Small jagged spines littered his body, particularly around the spine of his back. Patches of pink scales that didn’t fully go away left their mark upon his otherwise unblemished skin. He also had just the nubs of his horns left, luckily hidden underneath his dense curly hair. At that time, he hated looking at himself. All of the visual reminders of his breakdown, of his weakest moment, for everyone to see and judge. It was too much.
For those first couple of months, he didn’t leave the house much. He felt too monstrous to face human society, but also felt too much guilt facing Gem society. So much for being a role model for every Gem to look up to.
It had been almost half a year since Steven’s meltdown and subsequent corruption, and he’s been attending therapy with a trauma specialist since then.
With a lot of help, healing, and reaffirmation of his humanity over and over again- his corruption scars receded. Unlike the permanent scars on the forms of the other formerly-corrupted Gems, it seems his scars were manifested, as usual, by his own self-perception.
Now, as he looked in the mirror, all he saw was regular ol’ Steven. An unassuming human teen. It felt both wrong and right at the same time, the conflicting emotions startling him into momentarily going pink upon seeing his un-marred reflection.
Now, every reflection in the mirror is permanently scarred, fragmented… broken. His index finger, which was unknowingly in his mouth, was being moved along with the rest of his hand towards his upper arm.
Steven scratched his arm where a patch of scales once was. He knew they weren’t there, but still he picked at those places.
He let out a sigh and washed his hands. His nails were short, no longer clawed. Perhaps they were a little too short, but it wasn’t super noticeable.
Well, not as noticeable as the pink on his knuckles and around his cuticles. It isn’t the pink of his powers, but the pink of raw skin. The skin was becoming callused and rough, and though not scales anymore, Steven just couldn’t help but subconsciously pick and scratch at the texture.
He noticed a slight trickle of blood from the edge of the cuticle on his index finger.
“Oh…” he stared at his hand, marveling just a bit at the paradox of his mouth full of healing spit managing to cause him to bleed.
His powers have been extra fickle since his meltdown, and his self-healing abilities were especially weakened.
He made a mental note not to chew on that finger for a couple days. He would forget, but hoped that the light stinging sensation of still-healing flesh against his teeth would alert him. He would be able to switch fingers at least.
If the scales and spines are gone, why does he still continue to pick at the skin, any roughness being a target? He doesn’t know. It’s become a habit, one he has been able to keep under wraps from his family for quite a while. He knows that they would freak out if they saw the unnatural concentrated pink of his knuckles and cuticles. They certainly wouldn’t notice the perpetual shortness of his nails, so he just tried not to let them see his hands long enough to examine the finer details.
It’s not like he’s hurting himself. Yes, sometimes he might accidentally make himself bleed, but it isn’t on purpose. He doesn’t do this to seek pain, he knows that much. His need only extends to ridding himself of the imperfections on his skin. The roughness, the calluses, bits of acne that pop up here and there. Nothing harmful.
The hybrid knows his friends and family would disapprove. He knows how it looks to them, but he can’t see anything actually bad about it.
If they found out about it, they would make him stop. If he had to stop, there’s nothing he could replace it with. In his moments of anxiety, there’s something therapeutic about picking off the dead skin. It’s satisfying, calming.
While it may not be considered a healthy coping mechanism, it seems far more helpful than harmful.
The water has been running for a bit now, his hands long rinsed of soap. He turns off the faucet and dries his hands on a soft towel, not sparing another thought or glance to his hands. Most of the time, he doesn’t really pay attention to or notice his hands.
When they’re unclean, he washes them. When he’s anxious, he removes the imperfections off of them. Day-to-day, he uses his hands for all manner of tasks. Not one of those tasks is unimportant, and the thought of others telling him what he can and can’t use his hands for- that isn’t hurting himself or others- feels unfair.
He’s allowed to have this. Just this small way to cope with anxiety and stress that no one will have to know about. It doesn’t affect them, and he wants to keep it that way.
Clean hands on the door-handle, he gently turns it and opens the bathroom door. He steps out lightly and greets his family with a warm, genuine smile, as is usual for him nowadays.