Chapter Text
I am not easy to kill. I’ve survived this long, after all. But everyone has a breaking point. I don’t really know when I reached mine. But I’m here now. Everything I tried to stave off is back. I don’t know what to do with it, really. Maybe it gets me out this time, instead of in deeper. What am I talking about? Just shut up, Natalie.
We’ve only been stranded in bum-fuck nowhere for few months. But Jackie’s dead, Laura Lee’s dead, and I’m really fucking close. But most of that was in the winter. It’s still winter, though. If I had to guess, probably mid-November. But what do I know? I’ve been itching for my knife more than usual. It isn’t usually this bad. I have my necklace. I made a promise to myself, to everyone I cared about. But most of them aren’t here now.
A few years ago, I tried to kill myself. It was worse then, and I thought I was better now. I guess I’m not. If I could just get my hands on a knife… I could actually do something about it. Cut something that isn’t as useful as my wrists.
I sit up. It’s cold in the cabin, but it always is with the snow. My arms are aching with anticipation. The old scars are the most painful. It’s like they know I’m planning to add more. Before I really register what I’m doing, I’m already rifling through Shauna’s hunting bag for the knife. It’s a little bigger than I’m used to, but it shouldn’t make too much of a difference. If it cuts, it cuts, I guess.
I walk out of the cabin, and into the bitter cold. In a way, it’s nicer out here. It’s not as suffocating. I take a deep breath, and walk down the stairs. The snow crunches under my feet, and I flinch. It sounds too much like breaking bones for my taste. I keep walking, through the trees, through the woods, until I reach the site of the plane. It feels wrong to be here. Again. But I don’t know where else to go.
I take another deep breath, and suddenly I can’t even focus on what I’m seeing. It’s just the thoughts. The ones that make me do this, the ones that taught me what I’m really worth. Kevyn told me not to listen to them, but that’s probably bullshit. Travis would probably tell me not to listen either, but what does he know? I step inside the plane, and sit down in front of one of the seats. I set the knife down on the red leather, and take off my necklace. My hands are shaking. They never used to shake. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.
I used to wonder why I do this. But I think I know. There’s always been this… beast inside of me, this animal, ever since I was born. I can’t kill it. I’ve been trying, but I can’t yet. If it was easy to kill, I would’ve done it already. That’s why I cut my arms until they look like the shit on pies. It’s why I’ve tried to kill myself more times than I can count. Why I drink every hour of the day. I’m trying to kill it. And it’s not. Fucking. Working.
So I start cutting. Lines over my biceps, the part most easily hidden by shirts, right next to all my old scars. It stings, but almost in a good way. The pain is clearing my head in the way nothing but drugs ever has. I’m sure the two aren’t related.
I’ve been blindly slicing at my arms for 5 minutes when I head footsteps. Frantic ones, running through the snow with more terror than I have about someone finding out what I’ve done. I drop the knife under the seat, and hide try to hide my arms when someone calls my name.
“Natalie! Natalie, whee the fuck are you?!” It’s Van. Oh, fuck, it’s Van. Why did it have to be Van? I scramble backwards, further into the plane, but I just make more noise. She comes running into the plane, but stops cold when she sees me. “Nat… oh my god, we were all so worried, I… I didn’t know where you were… what are you doing here?” she gasps. I scoot back further, arms behind my back. “What are you doing here?” She asks again, confusion crinkling her face.
“I… don’t know.” I say quietly, leaning back against the plane wall. She raises an eyebrow. She’s definitely not buying my bullshit. “Natalie,” Van whispers. I start to shrink into myself, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of shame. She walks closer, and crouches in front of me. She holds out her hand. I take a deep breath, and hand her the knife. She seems a bit surprised, like me sitting in the site of our plane crash holding a hunting knife wasn’t what she expected. “Nat, what were you doing with this?” I look away. “Natalie Scatorccio, why do you have this knife?” She asks, sterner than I’ve ever heard her. But her voice wavers slightly on ‘why’. It’s then where I realize she might be afraid.
“Van, I’m fine.” I say quietly. “Then take your arms out from behind your back. What are you trying to hide?” “I’m not hiding anything, Van, I don’t need you help, I-“ “Then why won’t you show me?” She very nearly shouts. I inhale sharply, freezing in place. My arms are stinging like hell and dripping blood down my arms. Van looks at me, and her eyes widen with something akin to realization. “Natalie… show me your arms.” I shake my head. “Natalie.” She says firmly. I shake my head again, tears welling in my eyes. I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want her shame on my back too. Her judgement. Her hatred. I don’t want Van to think of me like everyone else does.
“Van… please don’t…” I mumble, and a single tear rolls down my face. She looks at me sadly, and pulls my arm out from behind my back. She tracks the dripping blood up my elbow and to its origin at my bicep. I take a deep breath, and try to control it. I’m Natalie Fucking Scatorccio. Force of nature. So why can’t I stop myself from crying?
Van’s eyes stay on the cuts for a long time. Then finally she asks, “Did you do this?” in the softest, gentlest voice known to man, and I just succumb to it all. The beast inside me is crying, sobbing, trying to make it all go away. So am I. I can’t look at her. Every time she asks something I just shake my head. It’s incoherent anyway.
With my eyes closed, I feel her shaking fingers over my skin. “Nat… it’s okay,” she whispers, smoothing over the shredded flesh. I guess I didn’t realize how much damage I was doing. “Van… please… please don’t tell anyone…” I breathe, and wipe at the tears running down my neck. She shakes her head. “No. I won’t tell anyone. It’s okay. But…” I hold my breath. “Please, Nat… why did you do this?” I release the air.
I open my mouth to speak, but stop when my lip starts trembling. God, Van looks so sad. “Why do you care about me so much?” I ask, looking up at her. Van pauses, then pulls me into a hug. I don’t expect it, to say the least, and start to struggle out of it. But I stay in the arms of Van Palmer until I’ve sobbed myself dry.
She holds me the whole time, rubbing my back and trying to soothe the angry redness the cuts have developed. “C’mon, Nat,” she whispers after a few minutes. “Let’s get you patched up.” There’s a small smile on her face, and I marvel at her ability to find positivity even in the darkest of places.
Van pulls me to my feet, albeit shaky, and tugs me forward. “We have some gauze back at the cabin.” “I know.” “Then let’s go.” “Please don’t let Misty do it.” This gets a laugh out of her. “Okay. I can do it, alright?” I nod slowly, and begin to follow her. I still don’t want her help, but I’ve already taken it. As we walk through the crunching snow, I still feel the crushing weight. It’s always there. But Van saved me this time. I squeeze her hand a little tighter, and she looks back at me.
“It’s gonna be okay, Nat.” She takes a breath, pausing her footsteps to look at me. “Please don’t ever do this again… you ran off… we couldn’t find you… until I did, and you were sitting on the floor of our crashed plane, cutting yourself.” My lip quivers again. She doesn’t know how volatile the beast is. I don’t control it, it controls me. It craves pain, it asks me to kill it. But I can’t. Maybe the universe is just laughing at me at this point. I don’t respond to Van.
Eventually, she sighs, and we start walking again. Walking with Van, I remember how far the cabin really is from the plane, and I wonder how I got here so fast earlier. I was probably just in my head, so I didn’t notice. I’m in my head a lot more often than I realize. I wipe my face again, trying to get rid of any trace of the tears I’ve shed. My arms sting every time I lift them, but I don’t care, as long as the tears are gone.
There’s still the need. The carnal need to slice my own flesh to pieces until I feel better. But Van just can’t understand that. I don’t think she’s ever hated herself enough to be able to. The thing is, I have everything to prove and nothing to prove it with. And if I don’t prove myself… I don’t wanna be stuck in everyone’s memory as the deadbeat who killed herself. But it looks like I might as well be anyway.
I don’t remember when I stopped being poetic and started being broken. But once a glass is shattered, it’s quite hard to glue it back together.