Chapter Text
He’s learned to embrace it. He’s learned to embrace the fact that no matter who he’s speaking to, no matter their relationship, they will think he’s insane. It doesn’t help that he, too, will call himself insane, but it still hurts in a weird way. For the longest time, he tried denying it, lashing out at anyone who dared to insult him, but now he’s learned that it’s.. Well, it’s far easier to just accept it. He was insane. Sure.
Even those he looked up to, even Fyodor - they all believed he was insane. They were confident that there was nothing else in his mind but the want for ‘freedom,’ they saw him as nothing more than a stupid, insane clown. And who was he to argue? He certainly acted the part.
Freedom has a deeper meaning to him than it does to others. When he says he wants to be free, he doesn’t mean from any physical bonds, he means from his own mentality. He wants freedom from himself. He wants freedom from this helpless feeling, this undying denial that he is not insane. He simultaneously tried to convince himself that it wasn’t a bad thing, that it’s simply the hand he was served, and that there’s nothing wrong with it. But there was. And the issue was simple: he, Nikolai Gogol, was not insane.
These conflicting feelings were how he’d ended up in his current position. He was on a rooftop, hiding from the public eye, as blood dripped down his arm. He held a blade to his forearm, and would slowly dig it into his skin, before gradually dragging it down, watching with an odd satisfaction as blood welled up from the scar.
It gave him a sense of relief. It’s not that he felt he deserved harm, and the pain itself didn’t bring him pleasure. It was the blood, it was the creeping numbness, and it was the cold blade against his hot skin that led him to continue.
His clothing was stained and splattered, some of his harsher strikes having caused blood to spray from his arm. He’d quickly apply pressure, at least somewhat slowing the flow, in order to drag this out for a longer amount of time. He didn’t want it to end, not anytime soon.
This felt like a way for him to prove himself. Prove just how much he felt, how much he understood, because in this moment, despite the slight satisfaction, he felt absolutely horrible. He was grinning maniacally, but at the same time, he wanted to scream and cry from the pain. It fucking hurt. It hurt so much.
His movements were sharp and sudden, there was no rhythm to the way he cut through his body. He’d simply take in a deep breath, and then slice. Parts of his flesh hung in flaps, and most of the skin on his arm had been discarded. Every now and then he’d bring his arm up to his mouth, licking up some of the blood, his pupils dilating at the taste. It was another one of the reasons that he continued; for the strong, metallic taste of his own blood. When he licked his arm, he’d also nibble on the loose skin, carefully tearing it with his teeth. It was disgusting and animalistic, but it brought him a strange sense of pleasure.
He usually didn’t go this far, this was much worse than any of his previous ‘attempts,’ and he knew it. He had no goal in sight, not even the sweet release of death - he was continuing to cut and slice without any further desire. He was simply living in the moment.
He, despite his desire to let this last, knew he was on a time limit. The urge had overwhelmed him in the middle of a discussion with Fyodor and Sigma. It had been a simple chat in an unmonitored alleyway, of no particular importance, but Sigma had pushed the wrong button. He made a reference to Nikolai’s supposed insanity, and it just pushed him over the edge; he’d already been having a bad day, but that one careless act made him completely spiral. He’d tried to last until the end of the conversation, but the need to find some sort of release had been building up inside of him to the point where it was unbearable.
And so he’d left. He teleported away as soon as he felt the conversation had ended, only for Fyodor to look over to him just before he could disappear. But it was too late. Nikolai had no plans to stick around, and the look he gave Fyodor was one mixed with both fear and hatred before he’d vanished.
So maybe he did feel a bit bad. Maybe just a tad useless, and just a pinch stupid. But Fyodor was no better than Sigma. Fyodor didn’t try and defend him at all, he simply agreed. They both thought he was insane. They both thought he was a stupid, insane, bloodthirsty, freedom-seeking(whatever the hell they thought it means) clown. So who cares? Who cares what he did to himself? Who cared how he reacted? Who cared how this night would end?
The urge to simply harm himself turned more into the urge to completely tear himself apart, to rip his body to shreds, to finally be free. It hadn’t been his initial plan, he did want to help Fyodor, after all, but it was all too much for him at that moment. He couldn’t continue, or at least he felt that way. A part of his mind knew he was being irrational, but he ignored it, his aimless cutting slowly shifting to a suicide attempt.
He wouldn’t make it quick. He had no intention of slitting his throat. It’d be easier, it’d be thorough, but it would also be boring. Fyodor was almost certainly looking for him, and what fun would it be if he found Nikolai in anything less than pieces?
It seemed though that that wouldn’t be happening. The door to the roof was suddenly slammed open, a disheveled, wide-eyed Fyodor on the other side.
“Kolya!” He was horrified.
“Leave me alone!” Nikolai shouted, striking his arm once more before taking a threatening step towards Fyodor, “go away!”
“Oh.. oh, oh my…” It sounded condescending, or at least that’s how Nikolai would interpret it.
“I’m not insane!” He yelled, remembering what had caused his breakdown in the first place, “I’m not fucking insane!”
“Okay, okay,” Fyodor seemed somewhat panicked, “then put down the knife, Nikolai.”
The clown glared at him, staring him straight in the eyes and taking a couple steps forward before slashing through his arm once more.
“Kolya!” He yelped, instinctively taking a step back as blood pulsed from the wound.
He’d absolutely cut an artery.
“Kolya,” Fyodor tried again, “put down the knife, Kolya. Please.”
Nikolai stared at him, “I’m not insane,” he snarled.
“You’re not insane,” Fyodor agreed.
“You think I’m lying.”
“No, Kolya, I believe you. Now please, please, put down the knife.”
Nikolai stumbled forwards, his vision growing blurry, “you think I’m lying,” he repeated.
“I don’t. I trust you,” Fyodor took a few steps forwards, his eyes wide with worry and fear as Nikolai swayed on his feet.
“Liar,” Nikolai hissed.
He couldn’t continue. He heard Fyodor’s voice, but it was incomprehensible to him. He stumbled once more, before the world went completely dark.