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It's not that you want to be dead! You really, really enjoy being alive at the moment, actually. Usually. No, it's more that you want to die.
Stars, it sounds so awful if you put it like that. You… are used to dying. It's second nature. It was the way back, the moment of relief after you screwed everything up again. You want that. That sweet moment of panic in your family's eyes, as they scream, as they cry, all for you. In that moment, they cared. You want them to care. And you want it to hurt.
You want. To hurt.
There's an itch underneath your skin. An itch and it's screaming, screaming. There's something that wants out, and there's only one way to carve it out.
Your dagger isn't really the most ideal thing for this, but it'll work. Your own nails could work if you wanted them to. They can be like claws, violent, violent, if you want. You could lose yourself in blood, tear at skin like paper.
But not today. It's a dagger type of day. (It's a glass type of day, but then you'd have to leave the room to find wherever you put your shard. They'd get suspicious. They'd figure it out. You can't have that, no.)
Every movement is so calculated. You have to be, when working so close to so many veins. The skin here is so, so thin. It'd be so easy to cut too deep, to open something that can't be closed. But would that be so bad? If you die, then that's fine. You've done that before, it really doesn't hurt all that much. (What happens before, on the other hand, hurts like hell.) Staying dead for once would be nice.
And if you don't die? They'd all be so, so concerned, wouldn't they? Watching over you, making sure you're okay, asking you how you feel, sobbing, making you promise not to try again. Wouldn't it feel so wonderful to be loved like that?
Stars, you're disgusting. Normal people don't think like this, normal people don't have these fantasies. What's wrong with you?
You dig the tip of your dagger into your arm. Sickening, sickening. But it feels good. Good. Pain makes you real, makes you human. It forces you to feel. When your fingers touch the skin of your upper arm, it tingles like a million pins crawling through your flesh. It's warm, hot, cold at the same time. Like fire. Fire is alive, so maybe you can be, too.
You'll burn, burn, burn, like fire, like a star. You push your blade deeper, letting the blood drip down your arm. Drip, drip, in a steady rhythm, just like the hands of a clock. Hands that strangle, hands that cut, just like a dagger against your neck.
You make another cut. Another cut, another, cut. And another. More blood trickles. Blood is warm. You like how it's warm. This is what living looks like.
But still, you aren't really alive, are you? You've died before, you don't get to call yourself alive anymore. You're nothing without someone to tell you that you exist, to help you feel, to show you that you matter in the universe. You don't have that. You aren't a person anymore.
You pull away from your wrist and watch the blood fall. Your fingers are red from gripping the knife. These cuts are going to scar. They always do. You take a breath and smile. You really should stop now. Someone will come looking for you, someone will find out, if you keep going.
But maybe you should take that risk.
You start cutting again, your thumb pressing hard against the sharp blade of the dagger. A drop of blood slips out, falling onto your hand. You don't wipe it off, just let it sit in the center of your palm.
You want to bleed. It's the most human thing you can still do. It's just like carving, but so much better, so much more satisfying.
Stars, you're a freak.
"Siffrin?"
Odile is by the doorway, horrified look on her face. You can't say anything, you don't need to. It's obvious, it's written right in front of her, the marks on your wrists, the blood dripping down your skin, your chest heaving. Her feet move, bringing her closer, almost like she wants to touch you, to comfort you. Almost. But you know she hates touch.
She doesn't say anything, not yet, but she grabs your dagger from you.
Isn't this what you wanted? For them to care, to worry? Do you take back that sentiment now?
She looks at your wrist. At the marks, the stars. The skin there is raw around the wound; it stings, but not as much as her gaze.
She looks at you, and says nothing, just stares. The silence is deafening. Her eyes never stray from your wrists for any long period of time. Not even for a second. And you see her thinking.
You look at her. You don't understand. You look at your wrists, at your bloodied fingertips, at the tears still wetting Odile's cheeks.
You don't understand.
She places a wet cloth to your arm, wiping away at the blood. That's all it takes for her to touch you? You should do this more often. (No, that's bad, normal people wouldn't do that.)
She walks over to a nearby cabinet and pulls out a roll of bandages. She sits next to you on the bed, wrapping your arms, carefully applying pressure to each wound to stem the bleeding. The bandages feel soft. It's odd, but comforting. Soothing. You close your eyes for a moment, just breathing.
She's going to have questions for you.
"I won't force you to talk, but... if there's anything you want to say, go ahead."
You open your eyes and meet hers. There's no anger in her eyes; she looks sad. She has a hand pressed against your own, stroking it gently. There's some sort of warmth radiating from that place. Comforting warmth. You like that.
"Thank you," you manage to croak out. "I'm sorry…" you trail off. You can't tell her why, not yet. It hurts to keep hidden, but it hurts to be known.
"I'm going to have to tell the others. Not Boniface, of course, but..."
"Why? Because they deserve to know? They're my friends, so they're entitled to every detail of my personal life?" you ask, sarcasm dripping from your voice. Stop being angry. She's trying to help, you know that.
"Because you need people who can help, if you… if something goes wrong."
"Too afraid to call it what it is?" you snap at her, your tone harsher than you intended. She's trying to help you, you blinding idiot! Stop being mad at her, you have to let her help, let her care. Or at least pretend to. You know you can't stop. Even if she takes away your dagger, you still have teeth and nails to use.
"Not afraid," she corrects quietly. "Just… unsure. I'm trying not to upset you."
Oh. She thinks she has to watch her words because of you. She thinks you're fragile, like one wrong phrase will send you spiraling. (She's right.)
"Anyway. Do you want to be there when I tell them?"
Do you? Do you really? Do you want to hear their reactions? Do you want to see their eyes as they finally, FINALLY love you for real? (They already love you, but it's not enough for someone like you. You are an animal, hungry and desperate.)
"Yeah." is all you say. All you can say, it's pathetic.
"And do you want to do that now?" She sounds so uncertain, all because of you.
You would rather die than face your party like this. You'd rather die than do a lot of things these days. But you'd also rather die than have to sit and watch her stare. You nod slowly, watching your hand tremble where it rests on the bedsheets. Odile smiles softly, reaches up to stroke your hair.
"Okay. Breathe for a moment. Then we'll go."
She's kinder than you thought she would be. You wonder why. Probably because she knows you, knows how broken you are inside.
You don't remember what happens as Odile walks you to Mira and Isa. You don't hear what she says, but all of the sudden Mirabelle is crying, and Isa is saying something, and then they're both hugging you and everything is too much too soon, far too fast. You wanted this, to be loved, to be touched.
They pull away after a moment.
Mira asks, "Is there anything we can do?" She's trying to be gentle. If you could be helped, you would be better by now. No matter what, you're always going to want to hurt.
"Keep me away from anything sharp." You give them a weak smile and gesture to your wrists. If they want to help, that's the best way to do it. (Nothing can fix what's inside.)
Isabeau nods solemnly. He looks like he might cry. He doesn't even know. Scars on your arms are nothing compared to the dagger you pushed on your neck. He can never find out. If everyone's this distressed over a few little scratches, then…
There was a reason you were so careful before today.
He holds your shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
"We're here, whatever you need," he tells you. He says it with his whole heart. You wonder if he'd still mean it if he knew the things you've done.
Maybe. Who knows. You're not sure you could ever forgive yourself.
"Thanks," is all you can reply.