Chapter Text
Drawing lines is such a hurtful yet fascinating thing.
Whether it’d be horizontally or vertically, it all looks the same but in different directions. Carving them, however, on the skin is much more mesmerizing to look at. At least, that’s what you think.
You sit there, eyes looking down on the “work” you created on both of your arms, red liquid painting the tissues of muscles as it drips down from the skin and down to your bedroom’s floor. You tilt your head a little to observe the blood trickling with the wind entering your room from the opened glass doors beside you that lead to your balcony, shrugging as you are still not satisfied with what you have done. Blinking slowly, you let your hands fall on your sides and take a deep breath while shuddering a little.
The shouts from the outside grow louder, even more violent than the last. Glass materials being thrown in different directions, mentally counting the sounds of it breaking through the walls and the hardwood floor. Skin hitting another's skin follows afterwards, the sounds of crying and begging to stop, unbearable for your own ears to handle. It’s all too much for your fifteen-year-old self to bare, even after all those years of enduring and ignoring these uneventful scenarios.
You stand up, eyes blurring for a while before gritting your teeth in annoyance as you hear another scream from your mother.
Shut up
Bloodied fingers gripped your [H/C] locks that tug on your scalp violently, repeating the actions over and over as you try your best not to scream. It will only make the situation worse, is what you always say.
“YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BITCH!”
Shut up!
Another glass gets thrown again… and again… and again.
The screaming becomes more and more harsh and brutal, forcing you to bang your head on the wall out of impulse again… and again… and again…
sHUT UP
“Shut up. . .” You mutter as you feel another headache coming, not knowing if the cause is from the shouts outside or you hitting your head against the wall multiple times— or maybe even both.
It’s only seven in the morning, you barely had any sleep last night as you were finishing a few of your written works that needed to be passed by today. You ended up finishing them all at five o’clock, just in time for your parents to start screaming in each other’s faces to no end.
You walk—practically dragging yourself— towards the bathroom while ignoring the already forming migraine as you strip your clothes off from your body, letting the fabric drop on the floor that left your body exposed. You glance at the mirror, not surprised after seeing those bloodshot eyes staring back at you along with scars displaying around your body; from your shoulders and down to your legs. Ignoring the reflection of a broken soul, you step in the cold shower and let the water run down your body without caring about your new cravings hurting and swelling from the pressure. It didn’t feel nice, however, you are too numb to care at this point.
Granted, you wanted to die the moment you dragged the blade across your skin, but told yourself that it’s still not the time. You still need to see your school for one last time. You still need to see your classmates and friends for one last time. You still need to see your own teachers for one last time.
You did set the water temperature to cold for that reason. If it were hot, the bleeding wouldn’t stop, resulting in your own demise that you still don’t want to achieve.
Yet.
Stepping out of the shower, you wrap yourself with your own towel and walk in front of the mirror again, opening its compartment to fish out a few rolls of bandages along with the cotton balls and antiseptic. You dip a cotton ball on the antiseptic’s bottle hole and squeeze it lightly, forming a wet damp on the cotton just enough for your wounds. After placing the bottle on the sink, you start to dab the wounds with the medicine as you hiss from its contact to your skin. Once you finish cleaning the remaining blood, you wrap both of your arms with bandage neatly and taping a few plasters to keep it intact for the rest of the day. You slowly flip both of your now bandaged arms back to back, seeing that the creations you made are now blocked by these white fabrics.
You sigh, and start to wear your desired clothes for today. Luckily, U.A. decided to have a rule where students can wear their casual outfits for at least two days a week— Wednesday and Friday respectively, sometimes even on a Tuesday. Today is already Friday, and since you don’t really care about what you usually wear, you put on a white long-sleeved shirt that is twice your size with its sleeves black in color, black ripped jeans, and black Chelsea boots. Not really the best outfit, but you don’t care nonetheless. You friends have far worse fashion sense than you anyway.
You let your hair dry from your blow dryer for a while before running your fingers through it, letting it flail everywhere as you also did not care about how messy it would look; it still suits you anyway.
After fixing yourself up, you take in a deep breath before looking up at your reflection again.
Fucking pathetic.
You shrug again for the third time this morning and walk out of your bathroom, picking your bag from the floor and making sure that your assignments are there. When you see that the needed necessities are there inside your bag, you walk towards your bedroom door. You stop dead in your tracks just before opening the door, listening carefully from left to right to find any signs of your parents. When you didn’t hear anything, you let yourself out without creating too much noise, figuring that both went to work without even cleaning the mess they made.
Disgusting.
You walk down the stairs, still cautious as ever, and towards the front door. Glancing around the house (maybe for the last time, who knows), you ignore the already made breakfast reserved for you on the dining table and trudge outside of your house before locking the door.
I can eat later in the cafeteria. It’s not like I eat either way. You think to yourself, standing near the bus stop as you wait for the vehicle to arrive.
Such a sad life to live in.
Parents fighting, grades failing, sanity falling. . .
Too much to handle.
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