Work Text:
The pool of blood spreads slowly, seeping into the cracks of the cold floor, turning the gray into a haunting red. Your wrists tremble with each erratic pulse of your heartbeat, the cuts glistening wet and angry. Blood drips in steady intervals, a chilling rhythm in the silence.
Your other hand clenches the knife so tightly your knuckles have turned white, veins standing out against your skin. Tears carve hot tracks down your cheeks, yet your eyes—glazed, unfocused—stare past the crimson stain below.
You don't know how long you've been sitting here, but the quiet is suffocating, broken only by the sound of blood dripping. Drip. Drip. You breathe in, sharp and shallow, the air trembling in your lungs. A shaky breath escapes, and your eyelids flutter shut, shutting out the sight, but not the feeling—the suffocating void clawing at your chest.
I can't feel anything.
The thought floats like a whisper, distant yet so loud it drowns out everything else. The blade in your hand hovers over your skin, pressing, digging deeper and deeper, the sharp edge finally splitting the surface.
A spark of sensation.
It stings at first, then burns.
A soft whimper rises unbidden from your throat. Your lips part slightly, trembling, and as the pain blossoms, radiating outward, a ghost of a smile stretches across your face.
Finally. Something. You can feel again.
Time becomes a blur. You don't remember cleaning the mess, wiping away the blood that had spilled like some unspoken truth on the floor. You barely recall pulling down the long sleeves to hide the fresh wounds that ache beneath the fabric. Now, you stand before the wide glass windows, staring blankly at the scenery beyond.
The city sprawls out in its usual chaos, lights glittering in the distance. But it feels unreal—like a painting you're unable to step into. Wasn't it morning just a while ago? The sun had been out, hadn't it? You struggle to piece it together, but the hours slip through your mind like sand through clenched fingers. It's night now, and you don't remember how or when the change happened.
A sigh slips from your lips, soft but heavy, weighted with exhaustion. The sound of approaching footsteps pierces the air, snapping you out of your trance. Your body flinches violently, a sudden, involuntary jolt that makes your heart race. Panic surges, your thoughts spiraling into chaos, but you force yourself to straighten.
Quickly, you move, grabbing the nearest object—a stray book, a misplaced cup—and pretending to busy yourself. Your hands fumble, movements mechanical and clumsy as though you're a puppet on strings. The doorknob turns, and then he steps inside.
Your hands shake as your mind fractures, tumbling into a whirlpool of fragmented thoughts.
He's doing it again.
He's been with someone else.
Someone better. Someone who isn't me.
I'm never enough for him.
The thought anchors itself in your chest, but you shove it down, burying it deep. You plaster on a smile, one that stretches too wide, too forced. Your lips quiver but hold, though your jaw feels like it might crack under the strain.
“You're back early.” you say, voice light, masking the chaos that churns beneath.
He barely acknowledges you. A curt nod, and he walks past without a glance, heading straight to his room.
Your smile remains, frozen, as if etched into stone. Even as he disappears from view, you keep smiling. Your hands find the edge of the table, gripping it as if it's the only thing tethering you to reality. You begin straightening the tablecloth, smoothing it over and over, each motion precise, repetitive, relentless. The fabric bunches and wrinkles, but you smooth it out again, pressing harder each time.
Your fingers begin to ache, the strain spreading up to your wrists, but you don't stop. The skin reddens, raw and tender, until the ache becomes searing. Only then do you pause, lifting your trembling hands. You stare at the pads of your fingers, reddened and sore, the faint sting a cruel reminder of your existence.
Your lower lip quivers uncontrollably, and you bite down on it hard enough to draw blood, trying to anchor yourself. But the room begins to warp again, the walls seeming to pulse and shift in the periphery of your vision. Everything feels too loud—your heartbeat, the echo of his footsteps, the suffocating scent of perfume lingering in the air.
You blink once, twice, but the tears blur your vision, and for a moment, it feels like you're slipping—like you're not in your body at all. Like you're floating just above yourself, watching the trembling, hollow shell you've become.
And for a brief, terrifying second, you wonder if you're even real anymore.