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When was the last time that Shinsou had hurt himself?
Well, if you had asked him that question two hours ago, he would’ve proudly said that it’s been almost an entire year. Now, however, it’s been only a few minutes.
It’s been a while since he’s been able to run his fingertips through his own blood. The redness gathers in beads and pearls, adorning his pale thighs oh so elegantly. He watches as it slowly builds, gaining speed as it trickles down. One pearl touches a second and they join, dripping down into a third, and so on.
It leaves a red streak down his leg as it goes. He doesn’t really feel the pain, but he winces out of courtesy.
He doesn’t really know why he’s doing it.
At the same time, he doesn’t really know why he ever bothered stopping.
It’s just bloodletting , he thinks. My humours are out of balance, that’s all. He knows it’s bullshit, but he lets it slide because it’s better than having no excuse at all.
His phone buzzes.
It’s Kaminari. Again.
An hour ago, he’d been answering diligently--confiding in him, even. Admitting that he was having difficulty controlling his emotions and that he was considering a relapse.
He promised Kaminari that he wouldn’t.
“I’ll be okay,” he had told him, “just a little bleh right now. I won’t do anything dumb. I’ll just want to really, really badly.” And Kaminari had said okay.
Kaminari had said, “You’ve got this.” Kaminari had said, “I’m here for you.” Kaminari had said, “Please don’t hurt yourself.” Kaminari had said, “Do you need me to come to your dorm?”
And Shinsou told him not to worry.
He’s not worth worrying about, anyway.
A sharp pain goes through his head and he suddenly vaguely remembers that he has a headache. It’s a less welcome pain than the sting of cuts, if only because it wasn’t self-inflicted.
Not that his cuts even sting right now. They never do when they’re fresh. It always takes a while, until after he’s wiped them down with whatever towel he had closest by. He’ll try to stand or take a step and his thighs will brush against his pants, making him cringe.
But it’s fine.
Pain is temporary, and it doesn’t matter, anyway, because he doesn’t matter.
He wants to be proud of himself for making it into the hero course, but he really can’t be bothered. He’s just gonna flunk it anyways. He wants to be happy that he has friends that care about him, but he knows it’s all pretend.
He’s not someone that people like. He doesn’t know why he was ever so stupid as to believe that he could be.
His squishy, disgusting body taunts him. Too soft around the edges, too gentle-looking. He’d rather be devoid of any corporeal form than to live so femininely.
Some days, it’s not so bad. Some days, he can touch his hand to his stomach and say, “this is me and I’m okay with that.” Other days, he wants to rip apart his flesh, just lop it all off, let the blood spew everywhere, leaving nothing but a ribcage in his wake.
Maybe, if he was concave, he’d be less curved, he thinks. And so he vows to eat less.
He never succeeds.
He’ll make it a day or two before deciding that he can’t handle it anymore. It’s a cycle. Starve, binge, restrict, binge, starve, binge, and so on. Just another reason to consider himself a failure. He almost wishes he had an actual eating disorder so that he’d be able to not give in every couple of days.
(Once, he’d admitted some of this to Tokoyami in the dark of night. He responded, in his always-flat voice, that it sounded like he may already have an eating disorder. Shinsou refuses to believe that, though, because he’s pretty sure he’d be able to tell if he had one.)
The blood on his leg is starting to clot, despite the fact that it’s still in heavy dollops. He grabs a water bottle from beside him and pours some of it onto the corner of a towel. Time for his least favorite part.
Though, it’s not like he has a favorite.
He wipes the blood away a couple of times, watching as the blood tries to bead up once again. He presses the towel down more firmly and holds it there.
His punishment has been served. Now, it’s time for him to pass out.
He texts Kaminari one last time to assure him that nothing bad has happened. He feels like a filthy, disgusting liar. He also sort of doesn’t feel anything which, he supposes, was his goal.
His thigh fucking stings when he goes to stand up and carefully maneuver himself into bed without brushing against anything. It’s easy to fall asleep after that.
When he wakes up (three hours later), he sees a missed text from Kaminari that says, “I’m so proud of you,” and jeez if that doesn’t sting.