Work Text:
It started in November. Nathaniel's mom died in front of him, he traveled alone for the first time, squatted in a house in Milport, Arizona, going to a school that would forget he existed within a year of being gone, not trusting himself enough to talk to anyone he didn't half to, and grasping onto Exy like it was the only thing he had left because it was. Hed never understood suicide before when all he wanted to do was live. But he understood it now. He emotionally killed himself when he burned that car and buried his mother's bones in the sand. All he felt was numb now, except on game days, the only time he didn't hear the sound of bloodied skin ripping off vinyl ringing in his ears. Dead was a constant in his life. Seeing his mother die was a small thing, or at least it seemed like it should be. If his mother was here, she would scream at him how much mourning was useless. He needed to run again.
November 15th was a particularly bad day. He didn't know what triggered the flashbacks, just that they were so overwhelming. The 16th he walked into class and saw a girl with blood dripping down her wrist for just a second before she pulled her dark sleeve down, clutching the extra fabric in her covered fist. It wasn't the first time he had seen self harm injuries. He understood them as much as he understood suicide. If you injured yourself, survival chances were decreased. She had tears in her eyes, and he knew pain wasn't any better than the neverending numbness. He ignored it until he saw blood in his flashbacks at the slight of a dead cat on the roadside. Everything broke, and he grabbed a knife when he got back to the abandoned house.
He didn't mean to.
He really, really didn't.
It just… happened.
It was horrible. Not close to the pain he'd felt before, but still awful. He couldn't understand why he'd done it, just that once he had he wanted- no not wanted, he never wanted to do it again- needed the feeling just one more time.
It's never one more time.
He tried to stop. He really did. He reminded himself how dangerous this was, how bad it would be if someone at school caught on, how hot he would be when the seasons changed, remembering the jolt of fear every time he forgot to pull his sleeves down after using the bathroom.
He screamed at himself to stop. He threw out the knife thinking if that knife was gone maybe the temptation would be too. He dig his nails into his arms, curled up on the floor when things got too much instead of grabbing that knife.
He made it a month once. He couldn't actually recall what had ruined it. Probably something small. It really didn't take much, did it?
Coach caught on. Nathaniel was screwed. Or he thought he was. Coach Hernandez talked to him about it. He didn't report it despite being a mandated reporter, but Nathaniel knew it was too close a call, and it would be reported if he was caught again. Nathaniel wasn't ready to leave Millport, but he couldn't explain his parents absence from the police without them realizing something was very wrong with his story.
He was a fool to risk so much over useless emotions. His mother would have screamed that and beaten him if she were alive. But she wasn't. That was the whole problem. Nathaniel hated his mom, but she was always there, always knew where to go and what to do next. And Nathaniel didn't. He thought he did. He thought being on his own wouldn't be so hard. Why did he have to be so wrong?
It was the next year. He was in South Carolina now, playing college exy like it wasn't another stupid decision. He managed not to cut since getting signed, having been slowly making bigger gaps between times before then. It was November again. Past the 16th. He thought the 16th would be the worst. But the need to do it again lasted even after the 16th, his scars hurting more than usual, his wrist aching and full of tension like it did in anticipation of him slicing it before.
Neil had so many other problems to deal with. So much shit to sort out, and yet this stupid problem, this stupid month was haunting him.
Neil never cried anymore. He saw no point in it. Until one day he was sitting in the bathroom, staring distantly at the wall so he didn't look at the razer, and tears slid down despite his protests. He was weak. That's the only explanation that made sense. He'd been clean for months, aside from picking at his lips until they bled and digging his nails into his skin and maybe taking showers too hot for him to handle, but those things didn't really count, right?
He wished he knew how to make the feelings stop.
But what good is only wishing?
In the end, he wiped his tears, pushed himself off the floor, and left the bathroom, deciding to add November to the list of months he would forever hate alongside January.