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Pest stared into the mirror; his body felt heavy and weak. He was a pathetic sight, this once strong, uncaring beetle now reduced to a self-isolating shell of what she used to be. How could she let herself get like this? It was a disgrace to everything it worked for.
The small basement was cold outside and inside, like most days were. The walls were scratched and stained with oil and a few traces of mould; to say it had gotten bad would've been an understatement. How could anyone expect him to act normally after everything that happened in that cell, the psychological torture from that beast, that hideous creature who hid in the back of his mind, always stalking her? All Pest wanted was for the voices to stop, to actually feel present in his own body, yet clearly that was too much to ask for; there were days when all it could do was curl up in its bed and pick at the bleeding flesh around her mandibles.
Pest walked away from the mirror with a sigh and walked to the small table beside her mattress on the floor, retrieving a small blade that had clearly been taken from a pencil sharpener. They lowered themselves down onto the mattress before staring at the blade in their hand. Was it really worth it?. Who was he kidding? Of course it was. She gently rolled up her pants past the thigh and made quick, straight movements with the blade before squeezing the small slits, making them bleed. He let out a few chitters of pain before stopping to see the damage caused. There wasn't too much blood, but they still had to clean up.
He walked over to the small tap in the corner of the room, washing the oil off her hands and then scooping water onto the now fresh cuts, making her chitter once again in pain before slowly heading to their mattress and passing out on it.