Work Text:
Your knuckles are white from gripping the handle of the blade too hard.
Do it.
You glanced down to the pale expanses of your arm. Milky white and invisibly covered in your sins.
You could see the scars that should be there, you knew that even if you were to drive that knife into your wrist all the way, cracking through the bone, it would quickly heal up faster than you could pull the knife out again. You wondered if you were to hack all the way through, would it just reattach once again? Or would it stay apart from you, never rotting.
The only scar to stain your body ached dully, you placed your free hand over it.
I bleed, but my heart doesn't beat, maybe I don't not have one.
I am heartless.
I am a monster.
I want it to end .
You know it never will, you are plagued forever, haunted constantly by the sickening thoughts bred by your own demons.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You can hear her speak, words that she needn’t be muttering; it was your fault, you should be the one appologising
You drive the knife into your thigh, biting down into the flesh of your arm to muffle your pained cries, but only tasting the putrid, cold, metalic taste of the dark liquid of which flows through your veins.
Is it really flowing if my heart isn't beating?
The pain was your only thrill, you understood those who destroyed themselves for just one shot, one toke, or one taste of their desire.
You twisted the knife.
It was like a bliss, this was the only way of feeling, the only way.
Rip it off, tear it from the bone. Become clean, cleanse yourself from this hell.
Die die die.
How long will this go on for?