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It hurts; it’s hard to breathe. Nothing is wrong.
That’s what he wants everyone to think. It’s working. Nobody thinks anything is wrong, and he knows. This is what he wanted, so why does it feel so bad? Why does he get the creeping sensations that he *needs* to sink a blade into his flesh? He doesn’t know why he even feels that way; It’s been almost two years since he stopped doing such, why start again? Why ruin his progress? Why does he feel this way? Why make others sad? Why make the one he loves upset? Andrew was so proud of him for stopping.
For fun. To see his blood, and watch it escape his miserable body. To ruin everything, he supposes. He wishes life hadn’t dealt him such a card; to be born in the “wrong” way, one could put it. He doesn’t mind his own body, most of the time. It’s others. People. People who are cruel and disgusting and hateful. People who have no respect. People who don’t care about what he wants. People who tell Aesop he’s wrong. They tell him he’s wrong to think he knows himself and his desires and needs better than any other human. People who wish he would die simply for existing, or wish they could make it happen themselves. People who purposefully call him the wrong name. People who purposefully call him the wrong words. People who taunt him when he gets upset, thinking they’ve won something. People who make him wish he looked different. People who make him wish he wasn’t born this way, the way he felt was alright.
The reason why he wore clothes that suffocated him and hid him as much as possible. The reason why he felt like shit day after day. Others, who make him feel sick. He just wants to be treated like a human, is that so hard? Maybe that is the reason he feels this way. It is hard to be human.
It’s even harder to be seen as one.
He tries his best, day after day, but no matter what, people will be cruel. People will be awful.
He tries his best to ignore it. Ignore the words that feel so wrong, not daring to correct them, lest he figure out he is subhuman in their eyes. Eyes that are always watching, always judging. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignoring the gnawing feeling that tells him to cut deep. Ignore it. Ignoring the feeling that tells him that they might be right. Ignore it. Ignore every hateful word, every shitty attempt at a ‘joke’ that is just another way to spout hate. Ignore the feeling of wanting to sink and never come up. It will pass. It always does. It happens well too often that he knows. He knows it will pass. So why won’t others be the same way? Why won’t their hatred pass? Why won’t their cruelty pass? Why will their words, sickeningly sweet, laced with the most toxic of substances, never pass? Why will the pit in his stomach be there forever? Aesop will never know.
He will never see the end of it, so why try?
A hand touches his shoulder. Kreiss.
“Are you alright?”
He had been standing in front of his cipher for quite a while now, just staring at the machine.
“Yes, I just zoned out a bit.”
He knows Andrew didn’t believe him; he always sees right through him.
“...Okay.”
Andrew starts working on the cipher, he follows suit.
They will talk later, he knows. He can see it on Andrew's face.