Work Text:
Sunny just can’t help himself.
He's in his bedroom, driving blade into his skin. The deeper in he goes, the more he can see the layers he’d cut into. A beige fatry hue peeking out of his gaping flesh, his smaller and compacted ones beading and dripping blood. Panting in short and deep breaths now, he swears he can hear the wet drip of blood hitting the floor.
“Worthless. Useless. You don't deserve to live.”
He's in the bathroom now, doesn't know how he got there. It doesn't really matter either. There's dull pain in his arm, as usual. He wants to worsen that hurt with every cut, to go deeper and faster every time is to add kindling to an addicted hunger. Resisting, he blots the cuts with a damp washcloth and harshly cares for his wounds before tucking the blade away in his front pocket.
While entering the hallway, his hairs stand up on edge. Passing a glance around, he turns back into the bathroom to face the mirror. Something strange had been in there. Just as quick as it appears, it dissipates again. He blinks at the glass and leans to look up at the note.
“Hi, SUNNY! This is a note from MOMMY.
Remember to brush your teeth every day!
Love you, XOXO.”
Well now he had to. After brushing his teeth, he would also visit the kitchen to see if he was left any other notes. He verbatim finds himself looking into the mirror, staring again. Crusted over by toothpaste splashes along dust, he could hardly see himself. He'd have to try washing it one day.
Making his way downstairs on unsteady legs, he heads over to the kitchen. When scanning the area for anything left behind, nothing is found. He shuffles and bends to open the fridge, finding just some bottled water and very few condiments. He uncaps a bottle of water and takes a gulp, it clashes against his teeth frigidly, making them ache and him grimace with shut eyes.
With a blink he finds himself kneeling in his bedroom, blood trailing down his arms. The blade clatters to the floor while he stares around at his surroundings. This keeps happening, especially recently. He'd blink and find himself somewhere else completely, his eyes glazed over, and body still in a murky daze.
He bends over his lap and stands up. His blood rushes, making his vision go spotty and bright for a moment. His right arm is tingly and numb like he'd had it bent for too long. All in all, it was a feeling of thorough unease and miserability.
Staggering over to the bathroom, he lets the toilet lid clatter shut to stop and sit on it, and grabs a crate of medical supplies from a shelf on his way down. He acts like he’s worried about getting blood on the floors, as if that matters at this point.
After tending to the cuts, he makes his way back to his bedroom and collapses into his sheets. Panting softly, exhausted from nothing worth. He rolls over haggardly and presses himself into a comfortable position. He's tired, tired of breathing, of cutting, sleeping, existing is even a chore now. He wishes he never existed, only a waste of resources, he knows.
He lets his eyes drift shut and imagines a life where people actually need him for things.