Chapter Text
(Rui's POV)
Just wonderful. Rui had woken up with a headache.
Certainly what he needed the day after Christmas.
God, the holiday was more exhausting than life itself. It never felt like a holiday in the first place, given how isolated it made him feel.
The way he was forced to wake up early for the sake of wearing some cheerful mask in order to not worry his family. It was truly, completely, disheartening.
Weren't holidays supposed to be magical? To be full of happiness, that can only be brought by family?
Or are holidays classified only by how much time you spend with the family members in which you see once a year? By how many fake laughs and smiles you can give until you're on the verge of passing out from exhaustion?
That's certainly what they had felt like for the past four years, to Rui at least. They never got a break, especially not on Christmas. Not like he ever did.
.
But that was fine, because this would be the final year he'd have to put up with it, wouldn't it? They'd finally get to rest, after fourteen years of being pushed to the very bone, to the verge of completely snapping. Then it'd be peaceful, quiet, empty. He'd finally get to rest in a labyrinth of nothingness.
.
Or, at least he hoped he would.
The probability of him actually going through with the plan to take his own life was a mix of both high and low.
He wasn't sure he could, knowing just how disappointed everyone would be. He wasn't sure if he could handle the idea of everyone being so deeply upset with him.
Letting anyone down was a fear he for some reason carried, though he wasn't exactly sure why.
Rui was quite sure he naturally did that anyway.
Especially his parents, with all the questions they asked.
His mind thought over all the times, especially recently, that his mother or father had questioned his well-being.
Last week, he could recall a time he and his parents were sitting at the table, eating dinner.
His father has asked something along the lines of:
—
"Are you alright, Rui? You've seemed pretty down recently."
The question had obviously caught him off guard. Not at all was he expecting his father to ask that question out of the blue.
A monotone expression graced his features, a small smile coming just short of his mouth.
"I'm quite fine. Though, I appreciate the concern," A lie straight through his teeth. He hated when absolutely anyone showed concern for him. He wasn't worth being concerned about, not at all. He wished he could forever go unacknowledged.
After a moment, he continued, "But truly, there is no need to worry about me, not at all."
—
Just thinking about that made him feel sick. Worrying his father of all people made him want to rid of himself all the more.
.
Maybe it was only righteous of him to die because of things such as that.
Maybe he deserved to kill himself.
To bleed out, to watch the red liquid surround himself in his last moments, before everything went black.
Who was he kidding? Of course he deserved to bleed. No creature such as himself deserved not to.
No creature such as himself deserved to be alive.
No creature such as himself deserved to be clean.
—
It was quite comical how just a few thoughts could cause him to end up in a position like this.
Sitting on the floor, a small, shiny piece of metal between his fingers.
.
Maybe this was for the best.
Just a few wouldn't hurt, would they?
Of course they wouldn't. The amount of times he'd done this should say enough.
But of course, it was completely futile, a completely ludicrous thought.
There would always end up being more than just a few. Each line only served as a mere decoration, and never stopped until his entire forearm was littered in cuts.
The cuts that always healed too quickly.
He hated it. The pink coloring of every scar stayed for months, but the wound itself healed too quickly.
He wished he could go deep enough that a wound would take almost a week to heal. That would be satisfactory.
Nonetheless, that was why he always cut more than just a "little". To give him the sensation of what he assumed was the equivalent of a deep cut.
The way his arms shook after doing it was enough proof that he lost just the right amount of blood.
If only he could go deeper, then he wouldn't have to be left with the dozens of scars he purposefully inflicted onto himself, and could be left with a few deep ones.
But he knew better than to go deeper. He knew that if he did, he had a higher chance of his wounds becoming infected.
He knew it would hurt, and he didn't exactly want it to.
Although, he was also desperate to feel something other than empty and dull. Going deeper could make him feel more than that.
Even so, he couldn't, even if he tried. The blade he took from a five-year-old pencil sharpener was far too dull. The piece of metal couldn't cut through his skin the way he wanted it to.
But how he wished he could pierce his skin. To feel and see blood gush out of each wound would bring deep satisfaction to himself.
Even so, here he sat, positioned on his floor with the piece of metal between his fingers. He sat still, as if awaiting something to happen.
Slowly, he brought the sharpest corner of it to his skin, resting it on his forearm.
His hands shook, though he wasn't sure why. He'd done this dozens of times, the hundreds of scars that marked his skin evidence of so.
His chest felt tight, as if his breathing were restricted. It was agonizing. Why couldn't he breathe?
He didn't understand why he suddenly became so nervous.
Perhaps it was because he hadn't done this in months. Did life truly have to make him feel guilty for this?
He took a trembling breath, trying to bring some air back into his lungs. But nothing seemed to work, still feeling such an incapability of breathing.
God, he felt dizzy, nauseous, even. Those feelings only seemed to make it harder to breathe.
Most of all, he felt his throat tighten.
Tears pricked at his eyes.
They hurt.
It was excruciating, more than anything.
He couldn't breathe, not at all.
Was this some sort of panic attack?
All he knew is it was complete torture.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, for a moment lifting the blade from his skin, hands shaking, though he was unsure why.
His entire being ached. It ached with the weight of unspoken pain.
He felt an unfamiliar wetness stain his skin. The tears in which he didn't understand the reason to why they were falling.
He was somewhat confused. He didn't understand why his body was reacting like this, as if it had a mind of its own. And he hated it. He hated it more than he hated life. Showing emotion made him feel weak.
He wiped his tears, bringing the piece of metal back to his skin. He swiped across his skin once, then twice.
He stopped for a moment, simply to watch the blood pool to the wounds. A familiar, subtle sting came to his arm.
He smiled. That satisfying sting he hadn't felt for months. He finally was graced with it once more.
He swiped the object across his skin a few more times, wincing slightly as he felt the metal dig slightly deeper into his skin than usual, multiple times.
God, finally. He finally felt something, something other than empty. For once, he felt real, human, alive.
It didn't take long before his arm was covered in wounds with blood seeping from them. He chuckled softly, taking in the sight of each drop of blood, although some had dried upon contact with the air.
At least he could feel. And he felt surprisingly calm.
Maybe the sight of his arm wasn't pretty, but it felt good.
He placed the blade back in its hiding place, sighing.
He felt dizzy. He felt sick. He probably just served to make his headache worse.
But honestly? He really didn't care.
Though, his body did, and he knew he'd be facing a consequence for his actions.
A shuddering sigh left his lips, leaning his head back to rest it on the edge of his bed, considering he was on the floor, far too nauseous to get up from where he was positioned.
He just hoped no one would see him like this.
.
He was glad there was at least a couple benefits from this. Not only had he felt something for the first time in months, but it somehow made him feel like killing himself less.
Maybe this way, he could stay with his loved ones just a bit longer, and be less of a disappointment.
Maybe, just maybe, he could give himself the courage to live until February or March.
He needed to stop giving himself false hope.
No way in hell was he going to live past January.
He didn't deserve it, nor did he need to live any longer. He couldn't keep dragging out his suicide plan any more than he already had. Waiting until January was a stretch in itself.
If he didn't do it soon, then he never would.
That'd only be a let-down to himself—not that it mattered, that is.
But this was something he had to do.
It'd be nothing but a sheer embarrassment if he were to come up with a plan to end his own life and just simply not do it.
That'd be childish. Being too scared to kill himself? That's embarrassing.
All he had to do was walk into oncoming traffic and lie there. It'd be rather peaceful and quick. Sure, he'd certainly feel the pain, but it'd be over within minutes.
Just a bit of pain, nothing more.
He was better off dead anyway. Only three people really cared about him, so why should he even be alive?
He'd rather die than go any longer being bullied. Death was the only escape. The want to escape was inevitable, because what other options were there? To stay and keep struggling was something he'd rather not go through. Death was nonetheless, not as painful as life.
Because what would life be without death? It wouldn't carry a meaning, just like his soul.
Life alone was meaningless, death held at least some value. When do people ever receive respect during their life? Respect is only given after dying.
That alone was enough proof that Kamishiro Rui deserved to be dead, and dead was the only thing he should've ever been.
Maybe if he were never alive, then the world would be a better place.
But it wasn't like he was the root of evil, no. The world was just naturally cruel, and he just so happened to be a victim of such.
Although, sometimes, he felt as though he was a reason why the world was like this. As if he caused the suffering of many.
That would be a sensible reason—no it wasn't.
He couldn't simply deny that the world wasn't pretty. It wasn't his fault that it wasn't. He wasn't his fault for anything, nor had he played a part in any of the world's cruelty.
But that didn't stop him from feeling that way.