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red blood rises, appearing on his skin like spider webs with there thin tracing lines across his leg.
fear wells in his chest last the crimson blooms into tiny drops of dew across the spiders web, anxiety, disgust, horror all raising up inside of him.
In order to hide from the world he has exposed his insides, his flesh and blood, a weakness not in mind at least, though it be in body, his body has never been good enough anyway.
he is alone in the room when he first whispers his apology, a simple "im sorry" sounding like a child who has been scolded (for that is just what he is, he is only a child, but only in body, not in heart). quieter more frantic whispers for forgiveness follow, nearly being choked up by tears that refuse to leave his eyes.
*I didn't mean to cut that deep* justification
*oh my god*
*I don't know if ive ever cut this deep before* a lie?
*no I have to of, I have to of* stop being over dramatic. prayers that he has faced worse pain and survived.
*but my legs bleed so much more* a justification, a distraction,
*god,god,god, what have I done what have I done* frantic, whispered under his breath.
An attempt at deep breaths for a moment while the blood still wells out, the drops blending together, merging into one mess, a pond of red ink appearing on his skin.
a muffled cry, he cannot cry.
*I don't know, I not even sad!* quietly as well.
*just stupid*
the boy watches as the blood continues to merge together.
* I mean, its not even that much, but there's so much blood and* a sharp intake of air
*oh I need to stop it, i need to stop the bleeding* a string of quiet curses and other words, mumbled to quietly to understand
*im scared to move, im scared of doing.. that*
The boy lifts his leg up, attempting not to have the blood leave a cursed trail, or worse, sink into the carpeted floor
another sharp intake
mutterings of *please don't fall* (if the boy is talking of the blood or his tendency to collapse, it is not clear)
*nononono I don't like that* he stumbles along, clinging to the side of his bed whilst also trying to keep his bed sheets clean.
his plan of moving safely does not work, the blood is too much, it falls down his leg in a sickly red stream before he can stop it, so he has to sit back down, stuck where he was before.
a string of curses and *its to much* follows, before relapsing into its seemingly average state of constant apologies.
He finds a tissue and presses it against his leg, holding it there to still the flow of blood.
*im so dramatic* the boy hates himself, but he is correct?
*I mean its literally something I did thats my fault, I didn't need to do it, it didn't make me feel better, I knew it wouldn't make me feel better. and I did it anyway. for the purpose of being dramatic, because I need attention, I guess, but I already have attention, and there are better ways for me to ask.*
*did I even want to do this? I mean I must have, cause I did, no one forced me to, I didn't know it was gonna go that deep* the boy spirals off once more into mutterings of *it shouldn't go that deep*
deep breath in again, he focuses on his wound, the feeling of the tissue pressing again his skin.
the blood seeps through.
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