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Johnny knows he shouldn’t do it. He knows as soon as the cold metal of the blade contrasts with the flushed skin of his wrist that there will be no stopping. There's a knot in his throat and his hands grip the marble counters to keep himself from shaking. His bathroom remains quiet except for the slight patter of rain against the cobweb covered window. He really should clean this place up some time soon. A measly spider dangles from one of the loose silk threads, and the blonde watches as it struggles to hang on. It’s quite luminous, especially in the reflection of the window showcasing the thunderstorm that rips through the city outside.
The transparent little creature has its leg’s wailing desperately before eventually, Johnny concludes to end the poor creature's misery and swipe the thread from its grasp.
The spider falls and crashes to the floor, guts spilled interchangeably beneath the soles of Johnny’s worn down boots. The blonde’s lips slip into a frown and he finds himself muttering an apology for the little arachnid. The spider web that had been constructed into such an intricate pattern, now swayed against the cobblestone walls. A delicate fragility. Johnny found himself staring at the breaking web as it pulled apart, clear strand by clear strand. The silk cracking in its exterior as its creator’s remains smudged deeper into the marble floors with every anxious ridden tap of the blonde’s foot. His oceanic lined lips purse and he's staring at the blade in his hand once more. Death had just looked so swift for the spider. Surely death would bestow the same effect on the creature‘s killer.
His wrist already burns from the pressure, but there’s no one else around to hear so Johnny lets himself curse out loud at the contact. A stream runs down his skin. It’s hot against his veins and it burns all the way down to the floor. Johnny doesn’t bother going in any deeper, the pain already subduing as he rinses the blood off. The blonde’s eyes train on the scarlet sliver for longer than they need to, ultimately convincing the ex jockey that it’s not enough quite yet for him to feel satisfied. His bones ache in such an utterly disgusting way, and Johnny once again wants to feel anything else.
There’s always an escape to his own feelings, and Johnny had never been good at feelings anyways. That conclusion is what led the blonde to scarring himself over the bathroom floor once more, teeth gritted as he stared at himself in the mirror and pushed the blade just a little too deep.
He wouldn’t say it’s because he didn’t want to die. Johnny Joestar was perfectly content with the unmerciful arms of death suffocating him at any time. In fact, the blonde would flirt with death constantly. Whenever his eyes glaze over too much and he doesn’t recognize just how much blood he’s lost, do Johnny and death dance lonesomely to his own fading pulse.
No, the blonde wouldn’t talk about it at all. He knew as much as he knew, and he knew that this wasn’t healthy in any way but when had anyone ever cared about the practicality of suicidal notions. He would only receive the same speech, each time.
And Johnny really just wanted to feel something other than his own exasperated pounding in his head.
Johnny had first started cutting when he was fourteen. That night he had bled onto the carpet and his father made sure to increase his already injured body by connecting his fist to the blonde’s jaw in a fit of rage. His child cried out in pain as his hands flew to his face. George Joestar could only do as much as to scoff before leaving the teen to tend to his own wounds. That night he had felt a fire licking at both sides of his skin, he felt an indescribable pain that saturated him with a new sense of familiarity. After that night, an addiction grew in Johnny’s veins and he had no intentions of extinguishing the flames chewing away at his interior.
No use putting on the flames if the fires already spread. Half the forest is burnt down anyways.
It’s not an admirable trait and it’s certainly not one Johnny strives to have. But in light of certain events and shedding dark on recent ones, Johnny could easily find himself slipping back into a fatal second nature. He had been clean for so long, longer than he (or really anyone else) had expected. Most of his scars had faded slightly before the events of today, when the blonde managed to cross each and every single one with the drag of a pocket knife.
His back presses against the bathroom wall and it wasn’t a comfortable fit, then again, nothing really ever was. Even with the newfound ability of walking Johnny still struggled with certain tasks, cursing himself over it day in and day out. The blonde’s eyes drifted to the window, his right hand soaked and dripping in the same manner as the rain outside the wall. The rain continued to pour but it had somehow settled down, and the blonde’s eyes could even make out a sliver of the sun peaking through the clouds before his vision blurred.
A slight drip echoed off of each side of the wall, one falling on to the concrete pavements below, watering a newborn daffodil that had grown between the cracks; and the other drop, falling against the fabric of Johnny Joestar’s lifeless body.