Work Text:
The door clicked closed behind Tom, his body practically radiating fury. He stepped over to his desk and took a seat before his head fell into his hands.
Why did they always demand so much from him? He was a demon, not a god. There was only so much he could do in a certain period of time. Why did they push him so hard even though he was the youngest of their 7 sons. He had virtually no chance of ever controlling the throne, so why?
He was the broken son, the malformed one, the shame of his mother's womb. Born small, he should have been killed on sight, but his mother demanded that he be kept. That was her mistake though as he was still a stick. He couldn't properly control his anger. He needed a life coach. He had lost control of his emotions in public and had destroyed any hope of creating an alliance with Mewni. Hell, he even had a rabbit.
What kind of demon was he?
As that thought ran through his brain, he stood and threw his desk chair across the room, the fragile wood shattering against the brimstone wall it hit.
Tom sunk to his knees, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Oh great, now he was crying. His fists slammed against the floor below him, the tile cracking below his strength.
Why was he so pathetic? Why was he so inadequate? Why was it that no matter what he did it was never enough? He wasn't strong enough, not powerful enough, and not intelligent enough.
Tom stood, and moved over to his desk, ignoring the curious and worried chirps of his rabbit. He dug through piles upon piles of paperwork before he got to what he needed. He hadn't done this in a long time. Brian said that it was an unhealthy way to cope with his problems. His father said that it was just another sign of weakness. But what they didn't know couldn't bother them.
He walked over to his bed, the overstuffed mattress sinking in below his body as he sat down. Reaching behind his head, he grabbed his shirt, tugging it over his head. He tossed it to the side before his eyes drifted to his hand. The letter opener glinted in the low light of the room. Without any further thought, he put the blade to his ribs and traced a deep wound there.
The wound hissed as the green spoke was released from his flesh, and Tom felt his eyes flutter closed in relief. The pain was therapeutic at this point. He pulled his arm up again, this time drawing a line across his stomach.
Cuts continued to accumulate on the demon's skin as time wore on, and the green smoke gathered around him so much that it began to stink. Once the wounds began to heal themselves, Tom sighed and set his weapon on the bed next to him, deciding that he had done enough. Reaching for his discarded shirt, he pulled it back over his head before he laid back.
He had had enough of existing for today. He needed sleep.