Chapter Text
He woke with more pain than usual. A scratchy throat, and a far more prominent throbbing in his head. There was always a pain somewhere in his body, one that either made him keel over and force himself to live through it as he grew up, or a pain that he knew were the consequences of his actions. Like passing out with a blade in his hand, or avoiding eating.
Right. Eating. He hadn’t eaten for days, and the familiar feeling of starvation was churning its way though his body. He’d gotten somewhat comfortable with the nausea, and even so whatever he ate would end up being vomited into a toilet bowl either immediately after eating or a little longer. It had become routine for him. He didn’t need anyone to know.
He was probably dehydrated too. That was the cause for his more prominent headache and dizziness, but he wouldn’t get out of bed. Instead he decided to lay awake for a few hours, staring at the ceiling until he fell asleep out of dehydration or fatigue.
There was no light from his windows. It must have been some bloody ungodly time in the morning when he arose again, throwing himself out of bed to fetch painkillers for his currently killer headache. He stared at the card packet in his hand. Swallow them. Swallow them all. Pass out and finally die when your head hits the sink and you bleed out. Kill yourself.
He swallowed, and put them back. He didn’t have the energy to die, as per se. Not that he could anyway. His people were doing well, his country was fine. That didn’t mean he was. His gaze flicked over to the blade from the night before. One cut couldn’t hurt? One, measly scratch in his skin.
He wiped the blood with his other hand tentatively. He could see the yellow tint of fat underneath, and felt horribly sick looking at it (he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, of shame. How could he let this happen?). He was kneeling, resting on the heels of his feet on the bathroom floor, blood dripping onto the white tiles as he fought the urge to vomit bile and nothing else because he hadn’t eaten in.. days? A week or two? He’d lost count. One deep cut into a vein had turned into two, then three, then half his body was mutilated. He was a mess, not the pretty kind. He didn’t even have the energy to stitch the wounds, so he opted for the easier but much more dangerous option of it’ll sort itself out. His body stung with each breath, and he was quietly hoping whatever he’d cut into would be fatal. It wasn’t.
His brain was foggy and he was dizzy, nauseous. He wasn’t wearing anything, having stripped to make the cleaning process easier for himself. (He’d get blood on his clothes anyway, that didn’t matter.) he was leaning against the side of the bathtub; vision blurry with tears he didn’t even know were falling until he felt the drip drip drip of them against his leg, swirling with the thin streams of blood blaring out his body. The blood loss offered him a sort of high. An unlimited high he couldn’t get enough of as he passed out against the ceramic of the tub.
He was pushing back the idea of cleaning up masses of congealed dry blood on his skin and floor for another day, when he was of clearer mind and higher clarity. No one would notice if he didn’t turn up to one conference right?