Work Text:
Leo hums as he clears a few books from the floor, stacking them beside his bookshelf. He lays his meditation mat flat on the floor once again from when it'd been skewed as he stood, and puts his candles back on the shelf.
He hums, still, as he reaches beneath his bedframe. Finds the small, locked box he's wedged between the bar and the mattress.
The fading scent of chamomile makes Leo feel calm, despite the shake in his hands, as he scrolls in a combination on the latch of the box. It opens, and he pulls out a razor blade. There are quite a few in there, but they're all the same. It doesn't matter which.
This is how every night goes. Leo eats dinner, meditates for an hour or so, tidies up, and then, sometimes, two or three times a week, before he goes to sleep, he slices into his own skin just to see the red against his scales.
He inspects the blade, checking for stains, or maybe rust, before placing it carefully on his bedside table. He makes a quick trip to his bedroom door, making sure it's locked, as he unwinds his wrappings.
He folds them and places them atop his dresser, along with his knee and elbow pads. He hangs his mask around one of his bedposts, eyeing the blade the whole time, as if it was taunting him.
Leo almost feels relieved as he finds himself finally bare, and he grabs a black towel from beneath his bed and lays it against the floor, grabbing the blade and pulling a first aid kit from under his bed, along with his small stash of paper towels.
He almost feels like he's in a trance, as he pulls one leg up, knee close to his chest, and the blade hovers against his calf.
There's numerous scars there already. Well, scratch numerous, it's many. There's more along his wrists, just where his wrappings will cover, and a few just below and above his knees and the inner side of his elbows.
He takes a deep breath and presses the blade against his skin and pulls before he can think about it.
He stares at the fresh cut. It takes a moment to fill with blood, and he watches with shaky breathing as it begins to ooze down his leg. It's a weird angle- he doesn't like cutting here much, but it's where he has the most room.
He picks up a paper towel and wipes up the dripping before moving on to make another cut.
And another.
And another.
Another.
Sometimes he kind of hates himself for doing this. He's the leader, he should be stronger. Shouldn't be resorting to… this. But he's not doing it because he wants to die. He's not punishing himself. He just… likes the feeling. God, he sounds so edgy. He likes the pain, likes watching the blood fill the cut and ooze out.
Mostly he thinks he likes the feeling of privacy. He's had to give up everything else for his family- his childhood, his time, his efforts, his energy. He can keep this one thing to himself- nobody has to know. It's a feeling only he gets to know, something nobody can interrupt.
Sometimes, though, he kind of wishes someone would. And they'd pull the blade away, and wipe the evidence of his mistakes from his scales, and tell him they love him and that they see him. Nobody ever has. He wants to keep it that way.
God, they'd be so disappointed in him if they found out. He gets a rush from thinking about it, though. He'd finally be worried about. That's a depressing thought. It's not like his family doesn't care about him, it's just… they've never had a reason to actively worry about him.
Sure, Donnie tells him sometimes that he pushes himself too hard, and Raph says he doesn't have to be the strong one all the time, and Mikey just loves to tell Leo about how Splinter has always been wrong and that Leo can be his own person and be a real teenager, but that's not the same. He wants someone to be worrying about what he's doing now, at this very moment. But he knows half of his family is probably already asleep or preoccupied.
He's not sure how much time has passed, but by the time he thinks he should leave it there he has 4 nearly fully bloodied paper towels. The deeper cuts are still oozing. He reminds himself to take a few more paper towels from the kitchen tomorrow before he grabs another and presses them against the cut as he opens the first aid kit and grabs an antiseptic wipe.
He winces as he wipes it over his leg, but part of him likes the burn. He finally pulls the paper towel away and wipes the wipe over the deepest cuts too, and he has to stifle a whimper from the sting. He grabs a gauze roll and wraps it around the cuts twice, tight, he's running out of gauze, fuck, he needs to make it last- and balls up the paper towels, burying them beneath an empty chip bag in his trash bin.
He puts the blade back in the box, locks it, wedges it back beneath his bed. Folds the towel and pushes it under his bed with the first aid kit. He climbs into bed, careful not the aggravate the bandages, and turns off his lamp. He buries himself beneath his blankets, sighs, and tries to ignore the aching, burning feeling as he drifts off to sleep.