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The silver surface of the knife glints in the dark. It’s the dead of the night, yet they haven't slept a wink.
After their mom and that God-forsaken skeleton decided to stop fooling around, there was no point in trying to get any rest. A range of resentful, acidic emotions swirled in their gut.
They roll their right sleeve past their elbow, revealing several lines and raised bumps along their forearm. Most are either a pale pink or white, but all of them are hideous. That doesn't change what they’re about to do, though.
The human can hear their own shallow, ragged breaths as they look around the dim kitchen. Loud, yet quiet enough to hear a pin drop at the same time.
It’s like drowning underwater with the way it feels they're being crushed under the weight of an ocean. But they manage to keep themselves upright, one hand grasping the counter for purchase and the other holding the knife.
Blood-red eyes stare back at them in its reflection. They look away.
Even downstairs, they can hear their mother’s snores. Knowing they won't be found out calms their nerves, but it’s replaced with an inexplicable rage.
Their grip on the knife tightens. Remembering events of the day before makes the human’s head swim. It's awful, so so awful.
Maybe they’d be angrier if the soul wasn't currently locked up in its cage. Without it, they're little more than a soulless husk; barely able to move without fear of toppling over. Not like they’ve ever been anything else.
Maybe they’d be angrier if they had the energy to be. But it’s hard to keep themselves from just collapsing, so they focus on that instead.
Their knees tremble as they let go of the counter and raise their arm towards the knife.
The steel of the knife is cold against their skin. They apply pressure, then glide it across. The pain, and the relief is instant.
Blood flows down their arm from the wound. It's not deep, just enough to break skin. They grab a paper towel and dab the wound with it; then place it on the counter below their arm.
Another slash, then a few more, all in the same fashion. Soon there's about ten angry-red cuts littered across their arm. But it's not enough.
It needs to be deeper. It needs to hurt, needs to bleed so much they get lightheaded. That's the only way they can get these awful, sickening feelings out of them.
So the human puts the knife back to their skin, applying much more pressure than before, and quickly drags it across. The wound goes white, then blood starts pouring.
A strange feeling blooms in their chest as they watch the red liquid flow out of the gaping slit onto the paper towel. It’s like they're entranced, unable to look away. Their heartbeat is no longer pounding in their ears, slower and more relaxed now that they've finally calmed down.
The paper towel is nothing more than a thin sheet soaked through with blood now. The human doesn't grimace as they pick it up. Instead, they're almost curious. They move to the sink and squeeze the blood out, reveling in its warmth as crimson rivulets seep through their fingers.
That was probably a bad idea. Now their hands are stained red, and the large slit on their right arm is still heavily bleeding. They slowly run the water and wash their hands as quietly as they can. Grabbing more towels and placing it on the wound, they tiptoe to the bathroom.
Under that sink is a first-aid kid that’s gone unused since Asriel left for college. He was always the one scraping his knees and injuring himself trying to climb up trees. A breathless laugh manages to escape their lips.
They're dizzy. So incredibly light-headed that they collapse onto the cold, tiled floor before they can reach the cupboard under the sink.
Panic fills them for a moment. They can't pass out here. Mom will definitely freak out if she finds them laying motionless in the bathroom, and they're pretty sure the kitchen looks like someone’s committed a murder.
Maybe this is how they die. Is that even possible? Probably not, they think.
It's unfortunate. It's sad, and most of all torturous. They can't rest. Not even for a second.
The human wishes they would die. It’d be like an infinite, dreamless sleep. Nothing could get to them there; they wouldn't have to worry about anything.
But they're not dead. They're pathetically lying on the floor like an idiot because they can’t keep upright for more than a few minutes. Using an exorbitant amount of energy, they lift their wounded arm up to look at it.
Hideous is the first word that comes to mind. Again. The largest wound is still bleeding, but the towels stop it from staining the tiles. They sit up and scoot over to the cupboard, opening it to reveal the first-aid kit inside.
It's certainly not perfect, but they manage to bandage up their arm with minimal difficulty. Moving it sends pulsing jolts of pain up to their shoulder, but it's not leaking everywhere, and that's all they can ask for.
The next few minutes are spent leaning against the cupboard and wondering if they should just sleep here. That's assuming they’ll wake up before their mom does, so they can clean up the absolute crime scene in the kitchen.
They’d rather not take that risk, though. And so the human trudges out of the bathroom and wets a tea towel to clean up the blood.
It’s quite a pain. Some of the blood has already dried, and occasionally the dark red liquid spills over the countertop onto their trousers. After the ordeal is said and done, the poor tea towel has to be chucked into the bin. Under other miscellaneous items of trash, like a bouquet of flowers, so mom won't find it or sniff it out.
Lastly, they clean the knife with soap and pray that the metallic smell doesn't linger. The human would rather not have to answer another barrage of questions about it like the last time they weren't careful. Yikes…
_______
You wake up, a dull throb in your right arm. The sunlight and birds singing outside indicate that it's past the time you're usually awake. Hm.
You sit up in bed. It feels like you're about to topple over, for some reason. That's no problem, though. You don't spend much time in bed, quickly standing up and walking out the room without doing much other than tidying your hair a bit.
While walking down the stairs, you almost trip and fall. Your head is swimming.
You're about to head into the bathroom to brush your teeth, but mom speaks before you can enter.
“Good morning, dear.” She greets, still in her pyjamas and looking half-dead, probably hungover. It's kind of funny, but you don't snort.
“Oh no, you don't look so well… I- I don't think I can drive you to school today, anyway.” She nurses her head in her hands, no doubt because of a raging headache.
“How about the two of us just stay in and relax today, alright?”
That's new. She doesn't seem like the type of person to let her kid stay home on a whim, yet here you are.
Well, that's probably for the best. You feel like you haven't gotten the slightest bit of sleep. And dang, does your arm hurt.