Work Text:
You wake up on your bed. It’s another day. You don’t know which day it is, or what month, but it’s another day of waking up, starting the cycle over. You feel physically sick but that’s fine, there are others who are going through worse, your problems aren’t worth the trouble.
You don’t know if you should get out of bed, and do whatever it is productive people do. Honestly, these days it just takes too much effort to exist. Your stomach growls as you curl into a fetal position. Maybe if you hold off food longer, you can save resources by not having them wasted on you.
You miss not having to worry about being a waste of space. Back when you were worth being loved. Now you’re worthless and not worth the investment, and have no use for anyone anymore.
…It’s too hot.
You get up to turn on your fan (which you should be grateful for, other people don’t have this, stop complaining) when you fall to the floor. Ah, you’re dizzy. It’s either the lack of food, low iron, lack of sleep, or all three. You grip the bed like it’s a life support until you feel good enough to move on. You turn on the fan on the lowest setting to save energy in the mansion and curl up on the bed once more.
How long are you going to keep doing this?
Whatever. Maybe you should go have fun for a bit at the casino, if your parents allow you to. Very unlikely, you still need to earn your privilege of living in the mansion (aka the vague instructions of chores and deal with the yelling of doing it wrong. Then have more chores added to the list so they just essentially make you their servant because what else are you good for? Fucking useless).
Maybe if you go to sleep they’ll finally learn to do things themselves. …no, don’t think that, maybe there’s a reason they’re doing all of this. Maybe if you prove you’re good enough, prove you’re worth keeping alive, you can finally be loved again.
Your head hurts.
If you were born perfect the first time, none of this would have happened. Everything would have been okay and you wouldn’t have to justify your existence anymore. You have your knife you sharpen often in the little box under your bed but you know you can’t kill yourself properly with it, you’ve done the research.
So for now you will just have to resort to digging your knife into your arms to serve as punishment for your futile existence.
Fuck, will you ever shut up? You have a roof over your head, you’re rich, you own a casino, you (occasionally, when the hunger is too much to bare) have food, you have clean water, and all you will ever do is be a waste of resources.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. You get off your bed and open the box under it, where your knife is. You used to have a box cutter but… it got confiscated. You thought at the time your mother cared about you enough for you to not kill yourself, the but looking back she probably doesn’t want to lose her source of money.
You check if your door is locked then drag a chair in front of your sink, sitting down. Rolling up your sleeve is an array of lines, marks, scars, whatever you would call it, and drag your knife across the skin.
The first cut is always the hardest.
That is, until you remember it’s called self harm for a reason, and adjust your hand so the blade goes through smoothly for the next cuts. The red gushes out, but you’re not quite satisfied. Pressing harder, dragging slower. You need this to happen. You have to. You need to be punished for being like this.
You can’t see your arm clearly anymore, so you turn on the tap of the sink and let it wash away the blood, turning the water pinkish. With a shaky sigh, you press a small black towel against your arm to cease the bleeding. You rinse your knife of your blood and set it aside on the counter.
After the bleeding has stopped enough, you fold the towel and spray antiseptic on it, patting the towel on the numerous gashes on your arms. You gently spread whatever healing antibacterial ointment you found with the rest of the medical stuff like how you’d imagine a loving parent would do for their child when the kid would get injured, like a normal scenario such as falling off a swing or whatever kids do.
It was difficult wrapping the bandage around your arm, but you did it. It was loose on some parts and too tight on others, but you did it, and that’s good enough, you think as you return things back to their normal spots and lay on your bed.
You wish you didn’t wake up tomorrow. Maybe then things would be okay.