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Blue had been great.
Well, good.
Blue had been good.
He had taken everything in stride, working hard to not fall back on his bad habit. No matter how his skin itched and ached, no matter how every time he made a mistake, his first thought slipped back to the blade he had hidden in his desk.
A consistent gnawing, worrying of his nerves, was the urge to cut. A sick, awful part of him hated that he wanted to do it, that it made him feel better. He wanted to hate every part of it, like it would make the urges easier to ignore.
He would do everything to distract himself, to put as much distance between him and the shiny little blade as possibleand for eight solid months he had done great.
***
Guilt burned up his throat, he wanted to throw up.
He was such a baby, couldn’t handle a little joke, couldn’t handle a jab at his own expense. He couldn’t ignore it- his mind a whirlwind, repeating it over and over again. The worst part was, Green hadn’t even meant anything when he said it, Blue was the one making a big deal out of it.
“We wouldn’t have even gotten involved if Blue hadn’t gone into the Nether!”
It was a joke.
It was said with a smile, and Blue forced himself to smile back.
He was making a big deal out of nothing.
You only hurt the people around you.
He sat on the floor, forehead pressed against his knees, his arms against his ears, his hands pressing on his neck. He wanted to sob, but he didn’t deserve to cry. He needed to fix it, he had to pay for the pain and upset he brought into everyone’s lives by the simple fact that he existed in them.
His mind slipped to the blade in his drawer. Before he could process his movements, he nearly ripped his drawer out of his desk, hands scrambling for the blade.
He held it in his palm before messing with his shorts, pulling them up enough to see his upper thigh, a few old scars peered back at him.
He got the blade out of a handheld pencil sharpener, it was perfect, nobody even knew it was missing.
He gripped it between sweaty fingers, hands shaking as he got closer to his thigh.
Don’t. Don’t it do.
Damnit, do not ruin this. You’re doing so well. Do not waste the last eight months.
Don’t run, don’t chicken out, it’s so like you to try and hide away from what you deserve. Take what you deserve.
Don’t ruin it.
He ran the blade across his thigh, a quick slice, pain prickling underneath. A small cut burned red, blood beading up against his skin, and excitement burst in his chest. Blue readjusted his grip, slicing his thigh three more times in quick succession. Blood slowly oozed from the cuts, and Blue kept going, decorating his thigh with as many lines as he could.
He always thought that when he relapsed, it would be the worst moment of his life, that he would be so ashamed and upset, but that wasn’t the case. His mind was clearer, the fog disappearing, he felt like he could breath again.
He felt better than he had in months.