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Now would be the time where one would say “here we go again”. She’s certainly gone again, but may not be in the best mood to hear the merit.
Cuts, scrapes, bruises, anything to make you bleed—people refer to it as punishment to not sound insane. It is rather sad, though, knowing how willing people are to permanently damage their own skin for a fleeting feeling. Maybe it was an intrusive thought that you couldn’t win over. Maybe you were reminded of a past failure and felt the need to get it off your chest. Now, you wouldn’t go about harming others to make yourself feel good, would you? Society calls that psychopathic. You just want to feel guiltless, nonviolent, or a rush of adrenaline.
But your blood makes you live, and that’s where you begin to run into some complications. Too deep of an engravement can result in a sacrifice of the crimson vitality flowing through your veins and pooling down the remainder of any given body part. It stains, makes a mess, and you’ll feel all uneasy. And if you’re too uneasy to clean up the mess, you’ll feel the shame and guilt of another cleaning it up for you. Such a brutal mess for any old passerby. If it’s a loved one, then you’ll have some explaining to do later. In the long run, it’s never worth it. Even if you have these great fantasies and a high pain tolerance, the cons outweigh the pros like bricks to feathers.
But she didn’t care. If you knew Okazaki well enough, you know she’d never care.
And it’s not often she’s been in this state, either. All the self-made scratch marks running down her arms and legs were more of a compulsion. A dramatic, extravagant moment of mania leading to more damage then previously expected. She knew how to clean it all up and wash it away, not exactly understanding why it hurts other people so much to see her like this. It’s all out of impulse, and almost every situation ends in a lie or the classic “But I was hyper!” “But I was too angry to control my own actions!” “But I have impulse control issues!” Obviously, nobody she knew at this point would take the kilograms of excuses she could pile up in one conversation. Few could even bear talking wih her for long.
This is one of numerous reasons why Okazaki deems herself inhuman. She exceeds human pain limits on purpose. She does it to see the parasites growing in her skin; the blood rendering her white clothes a beautiful dual-color combination; to know how it felt physically when she damaged others. Nobody’s ever taught her otherwise. It’s no punishment, no feeling of guilt. It’s doing it purely to do it, a first-degree. Okazaki tells not a soul of it for that very reason. She herself is the furthest thing from stupid and aggressive—it would be mortifying to hear someone accuse her of having such traits! If anything, all she can call her bandages are accessories. Full-body, medically aesthetic accessories—it sounds right to her and her only.
The sweet, sunny zoologist she always hangs out with is a near-polar opposite story. Harada had faked his own identity, his own personality during this era. The time where he was aggressive, brutal, disdainful and harmful towards others. He needed to be stronger, after all—to be the man! To be enough of a man. The false ideology led him into the naive belief of a dog-eat-dog world. It surely does more harm than good to be the hound in a crowd of stray cats. The damage began with the realization of worthlessness—one could say he tested his own tolerance for a short while. Or, maybe he despised who he was, who he had become—and felt the misery of guilt as specialized punishment.
On one hand, Harada’s meant to be a ray of sunshine to anyone he meets by design and by nature. It doesn’t make him any less strong. Things only took a turn for the worse with the lack of true identity during his middle school years. Those are far long gone now, but he can still see the small nicks every so often. The hair on his arms, the animal scratches (from Sawa and others), and the dozens of prevalent moles help hide the shame, and he couldn’t be more grateful for that. Animal scratches were the best excuses he could ask for. Some days, Harada couln’t bear to even look at the undersides of his arms. Shaking, freezing up, weeping at a fissage of pure animosity… and he never wanted the feeling either, though learning to grow used to it overtime. Men don’t cry, but it’s all he could ever do.
All in all, both partners in crime have their own history. Knowing each other so well, it’s a surprise neither have brought the topic up. When discussing the matter, people like doing it in a secluded, calm area for the purpose of comfort and safety. What happened one night was a less-preferable scenario. (But we’ve been through this, haven’t we? All we have to do here is a switch of roles.)
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Her heart rate couldn’t be any higher, laden with an unknown yet ethereal feeling. Okazaki’s always kept her nails long for two reasons: to scratch at others like a fox, and to do so to herself when the timing’s right. Nobody’s meant to come into her room tonight—nobody had made any plans. The pain burned through her layers of skin, rendering her nearly incapable of moving her arms. The air moving around from the fan made even the smallest nerves shiver and freeze. The pooling felt a little like a dried bath, if you have the thought process of a madman like her. Okazaki could count her fingers but not the amount of newly-amassed scars coating her. Some were light and ran across a good fraction of her forearm. Others cut deep enough to see white, but they were small chunks ripped open like lamb to the slaughter.
The bandages were ripped off in a panic. And even if you asked her, Okazaki couldn’t give you any semblance of a motive for her actions. Perhaps the pain felt good and she was a masochist, or she was back to being the lovely adrenaline junkie. Tonight, she planned to simply stay on the floor and let the blood dry on its own. Okazaki spills more than cleans, but she remained determined by her logic. Cleaning up was what she loathed the most; she’s never even cleaned up a dead body before! She didn’t even bother! That thought alone was enough to make her chuckle. There was nothing but a chuckle on that blank, maniacal face of hers. She could nearly kiss the blinding ceiling light shining over her at this hour. Okazaki is well aware that it’s night hours, but couldn’t figure out the exact time. She couldn’t see the clock from here.
Now, Harada’s not exactly a night owl compared to Okazaki. He’d usually be winding down at this point but had forgotten to drop off an item to her room. At the store earlier that day, he found some glass art of a fox he thought Okazaki would sdore. He’s been busy most of the day as well, hanging out with the rest of his iconic trio and his other peers. He was a polar opposite to Okazaki in that sense as well—and it was likely the contrasts that made the two pair so well together. So here he was, strolling down the hall of apartments or dorms or whatever you call it—before coming to the foot of Okazaki’s door and planting a knock or two.
God, damn it.
God bless the fox for having such good hearing.
She isn’t always the best planner at times. In retrospect, it would have been better to do this at four in the morning. She’s certain nobody else stays up to 4:00 AM. Additionally, she’s seldom ever angry at Harada. There’s just something about him as opposed to everyone else that makes her less agitated around him. Of course, it’s still possible to blow her fuse. Okazaki’s currently laying stuck to the floor like a fly in a glue trap, who does not have any time to make herself look presentable.
He knocked on the door again and called out, “Hanano, you in there? A have a gift for ya!” And he sounded so unbearably joyous saying that, too. The sweetness made Okazaki sick to her stomach. She didn’t want him there, but decided that it would be fine for him to see her like that if he managed to welcome himself in. She won’t be saying a single thing to him. She won’t even go up to open the door!
“Ah, um- Hanano… can I come in? Your… your door’s unlocked.” —The next to last thing she wanted to hear. She left the door unlocked. She forgot to lock it. People tend to leave out many details and small actions when in an adrenaline rush, and one push of the door would send both of them spiraling.
“I’m coming in, if that’s alright with you.”
They say this classifies as the ‘calm before the storm’. Okazaki didn’t exactly have the time to prepare. The door began creaking open, ever so gradually.
“I have this…”
“—H-Hanano…? W-WHAT THE HELL, OKAZAKI!?” He said it in such a shaky voice, obviously in panic over Okazaki’s mutilated state. He could barely find the words to say in pure shock. In a way, it was like seeing his typical nightmares in real life. Harada froze, nearly dropping the glass gift he planned on giving her. Now there’s a change in schedule. Okazaki knew she was in some sense of trouble when he used the last name. She didn’t really care much, though—she never did. There was a pit in her chest and nothing more to speak of.
She responded after a moment, saying, “…You shouldn’t be here right now, Keizou. The sight alarms you, doesn’t it?” She has numerous open cuts on her arms, blood pooling onto the floor, bandages ripped and thrown across the floor, and an unused but open box cutter right beside her. No shit the sight alarmed him, Okazaki. You look like you tried killing yourself—he doesn’t know how much blood you have in your body. You make it look like you’ve been drained.
“N-No, get up, and stay on the bed. You have a first aid kit in here?” Reluctantly, he awkwardly picked up Okazaki’s body off the floor by the waist and positioned her on the bed. He’s certain she’d wouldn’t want to be outside or in any other room right now, but she can’t decline the medical attention. The glare in her eyes signaled as to why she never keeps a first aid kit in her room, so he rushed over to his own some rooms down and immediately went to patching.
“You really don’t have to do this, Keizou. I was fine the way I was when you first found me.”
“I’m not letting you bleed out to death on the floor, nor do I want you getting an infection. I’m just trying to help you here.”
“Well you ruined the whole moment. I was having a fun time until you went and ruined the whole moment. The adrenaline felt good, you know. Oh, of course you’d know.” Okazaki knew where she was going with that last comment. She’s only looking to spite Harada for the time being, knowing she doesn’t have the strength in her arms to fight back. Even for holding her arms down slightly, he has a pretty strong grip. She blushed a little on the inside at that notice.
“Then I have every reason in the world to worry for you when you’re destroying your nerves for the fun of it. That isn’t healthy , Okazaki.”
“Go back four or five years ago and tell yourself that very statement.” Impulse control, they say. She’s grateful for how patient he is.
“Don’t even try starting with that right now.” He’s been applying pressure to the deeper cuts, while simply cleaning the smaller ones with soap and water.
“You deserve it, though. I’m allowed to be difficult every so often. Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m a saint to you every day of the week.”
“-Why?” Harada changes the conversation topic, awaiting an answer. Any answer.
“Why what?”
“…Why did you do this? Were you upset at someone, upset at yourself, just felt the need to? You could have talked to me if you were feeling down. Th-That’d be better than mutilating yourself over it. I’m worried for you, Hanano! I’ve never seen you with fresh scars and I’m worried about how much I may as well have missed already. I’m just- worried, okay?” Poor guy, on the verge of sobbing through that entire monologue. He has to be the one staying strong here if Okazaki couldn’t care less. It’s the kind of concern that no words nor actions can describe—only a sense of misery for the possible outcomes.
“Do I really need a reason though? I can’t even remember myself.”
“Impulses?”
“Most likely, but again. How would I know?”
“And why were you just planning to lay there? If you’re… suicidal, then you can always talk to me. You know that.”
“I don’t need or want any help from you. I’m not suicidal either. Let me have my adrenaline rush in peace, you sad sack.”
“And I don’t care. For once I don’t care about that. You need the help, Okazaki. I’m probably never gonna be able to put you into therapy again but you can’t be laying like a corpse for hours on end without worrying me.”
“That makes you sound like a narcissist. Selfish today, aren’t we?”
“Just- please . Just this once. You’re not gonna like how little you’ll be able to move your arms if these don’t begin healing soon.”
“How little I can move my arms?” She can’t express anger as well as the next person, which leads to some offensive actions within seconds. The minor cuts have already been bandaged, while Harada’s busy applying disinfectant to the deeper wounds. In a fit of anger—not shown on her face at all—Okazaki starts ripping off the many bandages previously placed on her skin before pushing her partner back slightly. She doesn’t want the help, nor can she understand why she needs the help in the first place.
It’s a good thing Harada can read the room well— her room.
“Leave, Keizou. I can take care of myself. Just leave the first aid kit here.”
“I’m not just leaving you when you’re back to square one here. Just let me-“
“ Leave .” She said this with ths strictest tone he had ever heard from her. The reply was uncanny. Okazaki grabbed him by the wrist as a threat but did no more. It was clear to Harada that she wouldn’t be budging for the rest of the night; that’s just how she is. Her grip’s similarly strong, but it would take all the force in the world for her to genuinely harm her partner. She found entertainment in playfully threatening her peers, after all. And by now, Harada is conflicted. He couldn’t just leave her here but it’s obvious she wants to be alone. Not everything Okazaki desires actually leads to the best result. Eventually, determined to help her as best as he can, Harada attempts to negotiate.
“I’ll leave you tonight, but I’m coming to you first-thing in the morning to fix the bandages, okay? …Goodnight, Hanano.” Okazaki has noticed over the months that he usually refers to her as ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ when telling each other good night. Maybe he’s been disturbed. Maybe she finally managed to disturb him. (And if she did, he’s surely staying strong. That, Okazaki can applaud.) Maybe he’s given up and she wins for the night. The triumph definitely makes her happy, but she’s beginning to feel uneasy by Harada’s gaze at her. Maybe she’s feeling guilty again! She wouldn’t know, though. It almost never happens.
“Go, Keizou. Just- I- go. Good night.” Okazaki was close to saying ‘I’m sorry’ but didn’t want to feel any more vulnerable than she does already. Guilt it is, Okazaki. Guilt it is.
He glanced at her one more time with bloody hands and eyes more worried than hurt before stepping through the door. And would you look at that—he left the gift in the bag on the table. She’ll be sure to open that later. The first aid kit lays frazzled and used on the nightstand. Her blankets are stained with blood spots in multiple areas. The light was still blinding, but it felt good this time around. Maybe because she’s not staring directly into it, or rather, it acts as company for her. Company, because she dismissed the most company she has in this little group.
Misery loves company, after all. And it lightens her mood when it’s all too late.