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He always labeled it as just ‘a last resort.’ When all of the pain and suffering comes flooding in, it's not a surprise that taking your own life seems like a final option. But it never was just a last resort: it was always plan B.
Then, Morisuke was sitting in the corner of his bathroom as silent sobs trickled down his cheeks in a mocking way - as if ridiculing the blood that drizzled down his arms. He gently dabbed the scars with the soft tissues that had been scattered besides his feet. From what originally held the purpose of hiding his tears turned into a gory and gruesome task.
It was never meant to end like this.
He kept lying to himself.
He never wanted this to happen.
He kept pretending.
Truth be told, there was nothing he wanted more than to grab that small, sharp beacon of temptation and drag it quickly and continuously against his upper arm. And when he would run out of space, his wrists, his thighs, his legs… any and all visible patches of skin that he could manipulate and distort until it was crafted into his own fucked up canvas would do just fine.
A canvas.
That was a metaphor that Morisuke always held close to his heart. Your body is a canvas; a beautiful piece of art that best describes you, your stories, and your life. It wasn't perfect, but it was personal - unique. Every scratch, every bruise, spot of ink, paint, mud, hair, freckle, scrape - it all told a story. Even if it didn't seem like it, every part of you meant something, and this was something that Morisuke continued to tell himself to stay sane.
Yet as he looked down at his shaking legs, and his trembling, damaged left arm, he couldn't help but ponder, “Is this still beautiful?”
Whilst choking on his breath, he attempted to stay completely silent. However, through failed efforts, his mind persisted on circling back to the idea of beauty. No matter how many metaphors tried to convince him otherwise, this wasn't art; it wasn't pretty; his body was a disgrace.
It was disgusting.
It was repulsive.
It was embarrassing.
How could he sit there crying like a child? How could he sit there dragging a razor across his body? How could he sit there and allow it?
Eventually, his left arm had run out of space, and for once in his life, his eyes lit up as he looked down at his thigh.
“Don't do it.” Or do.
“It'll hurt like hell.” Isn't that what you want?
Evil, pain, and suffering came with consequences. The more you hurt someone, the more karma you'll get. Except in this scenario, that someone else is yourself, and although you aren't inflicting agony on another person, the theory still stands. That didn't seem fair.
Blood will be spilled, and Morisuke had accepted this a long time ago - the second the teasing, the harassment, and the bullying began. He knew what the punishment of cutting was, and in a peculiar way he found it comforting.
It was grounding; it made him feel human. He would feel the harm, and the anger, and the sadness that self-violence would create, and those emotions made him real. It meant he existed.
He was beginning to run out of tissues.
Fortunately, there was a roll of toilet paper.
Then he had another idea.
Initially, it seemed gross - the thought of leaning over the toilet. Despite that, the thought of purging was contradictory. As he took a deep breath, he slowly dragged his aching body closer to the toilet. It was hard to move, and his arms quivered beneath him, but that didn't stop him nonetheless.
Just once.
Just. Once.
A few minutes later, Morisuke was tucked back into the bathroom corner again. This time, his head rested in his arms above his knees as he didn't hold back the endless weeping. He wasn't able to make himself sick, and a part of him was secretly grateful, but the other part was incredibly disgusted.
How could he be so weak? So pathetic? How could he find it scary?
The more stupid he felt, the more angry he became, and that only made the razor look more enticing. So he picked it up again. And again. And again… and again. After a while, the blood was starting to make him feel queasy, and although he had a feeling he wouldn't be sick, if he didn't get up soon, he'd probably pass out.
So although his body hurt like hell, and standing up turned into a task that only appeared impossible, he pulled himself up. Leaning against the wall, he noticed as his legs almost gave in, the way his fingers spread against the cold tiles - their grip getting only increasingly tighter.
He hauled his delicate, heavy body towards his bed, and after a sudden, loud ‘thwump’ he'd finally passed out.
In hindsight, the fact that he'd passed out was probably a good thing. It meant he could rest, and the relentless, dismal thoughts that lingered in his hurting mind would finally end. Still, that couldn't prevent the wash of anxiety he'd feel in the morning when he looks down at his mutilated body.
Enough sleep could never avert panic the following day as he would rush to find bandages and wipes.
Rest will never stop tomorrow's panic.