Chapter Text
Really, there were a variety of reasons why Alexander kept a knife next to his bed.
Not long ago, there had been a time when the shadows in the corner of his room had grown faces, and stood over him, manifesting into something sinister and solid the second that he turned to face the wall. The knife helped, just a little.
Or when he’d lay awake, straining his ears for the slightest creak that could mean footsteps in the silent house, too terrified of danger to sleep. Too terrified of being vulnerable.
Despite the array of explanations that Alexander could give for the presence of the blade by his bed, tonight there was only one reason.
Blood beads on his arm as he drags the metal across the soft skin of his wrist, gritting his teeth slightly at the sting. A self-satisfied smile creeps over his face, and he brings his hand up next to the lamp beside him, taking in the ladder of uneven red lines marring the inside of his arm. It was a shame, really. Well, it would be if he had actually intended to get better. It had been almost a month since he had last done this, and the only thing keeping him from picking up the knife had been the sudden storm of work that had recently swamped them, frequently keeping him up past midnight.
There were a lot of reasons why people cut themselves, he supposed. To ‘feel something’ or as some sort of punishment. Really, he just enjoyed the feeling - got some sort of kick out of the sight of blood on his skin.
There’ll be some sort of word for that - masochism, maybe? God knows.
He puts the blade away, leaning back on his bed with a sigh. It isn’t enough, really. It’s never enough. He didn’t go hard enough tonight, the red droplets smearing across his forearm as he brushed them away. The skin around them is red and puffy, and starting to sting sharply.
He didn’t go hard enough tonight.
Maybe fantasising about seeing red run down your arms isn’t healthy. Or absentmindedly wondering what it would be like to be hit by a truck, how it would feel to have your bones splinter under the pressure of the metal. Right, a voice in his head chimes, totally normal, and sane thoughts, Alex.
The fabric brushes against his skin as he pulls the covers tight around him, and he winces at the sensation, grasping the arm with his uninjured hand instead. His fingers are cold against the warmth of the inflamed skin, providing a sort of relief that hovers on the thin line between pleasure and pain.
He hates to think what would happen if someone found out about it. It isn’t really hard to hide - a couple of weeks of long sleeves and baggy jumpers and the marks are almost invisible, but Alexander could still picture the mixture of horror and pity marring the Washington’s face, the way that Eliza would grasp his wrist gently and pull back his sleeve..
No. Thinking like that didn’t help. They couldn’t know, they just wouldn’t understand.
Turning over to have his back to the wall, pain flares again in the arm tucked tightly against his body, and he sighs.
It would be a long night.