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Kazuha loved him, he knew that. He loved him as well; he didn’t know what he would do if the poet left him.
Then, why did he feel so horrible? Why did he feel like he was only hurting the prepossessing wanderer?
The puppet stood in front of a mirror, mindlessly staring at his body. It wasn’t as if he was unattractive, he liked his body- it was his heart, or rather the absence of it, that was the issue. He placed his delicate hand on his chest, trying to feel a heartbeat. Something, anything.
There was no feeling. Scaramouche’s chest was hollow. He wondered what would happen if he cut it open, what would he find? Would there be blood? Would there be some sort of artificial organ in place of a heart?
Why would Kazuha love a puppet?
Why would he love a heartless thing?
He didn’t understand it. He didn’t deserve the poet at all. He only deserved perpetual agony and suffering.
I should punish myself, the puppet thought. He should punish himself for being so careless that we would let a man like Kazuha fall for him, and he should punish himself for being so foolish that he would love him back.
Scaramouche sat at his fatui-issued desk with a sigh. He then reached into his topmost drawer, taking out a small, silver dagger. It was sharp and beautiful, with purple engravings of flowers on the handle. It was a shame that it would soon be littered with the filthiness of his “blood,” or whatever that murky red artificial substance was.
The puppet hesitantly took off his glove, turning his wrist around. He then brought the dagger to his pale wrist, making shallow cuts. He slightly winced in pain, watching as drips of blood started to seep out of his wounds. He then started to gradually go deeper and deeper, the cuts becoming increasingly painful, and the blood coming out quicker. Scaramouche was almost in a daze, mindlessly watching the red liquid ooze out of his body.
After coming out of his daze, the puppet sighed, disappointed and disgusted by the mess he had made. He took a cloth and cleaned the blade off, carefully putting it back into his drawer. After that, Scaramouche hastily bandaged his wrists, not wanting to look at the disarray of his once unscathed wrist anymore.
He was pathetic. He deserved the pain, he deserved all of it. He was only full of negativity and loathsome things, there was nothing to love about him, but that moronic wanderer somehow found something lovable about him, or at least a delusion of something. He had to push him away, he had to do something to get him to save himself, and stop loving him.
He would do that eventually. For now, he was late for the grilled fish that Kazuha had mentioned that he would cook that night. He was glad his gloves covered his wrists.