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He’d become numb to it by now, it seems. The emptiness almost worse than the overwhelming guilt of before, eyes dry as he stared down at his paws. What did it say about him, not only that he did it in the first place, but that he felt nothing now? Was he just as bad as…-
He tried futilely to shake the thought away, chest tightening at the mere thought of him, or even worse, her. He began to pant, limbs feeling slack beneath him. Concepts, faces, scents, feelings, they swirled in his mind involuntarily. The curls of his sister’s fur, of his father’s fur, his bellowing voice, that look in Yew’s eyes, his uncle’s scent still in Snowbush’s nest, how he’d always been told he was just like him, the way he’d pictured those stories, of Yew, Honeysuckle, of Quince. The smoke. He crumpled to the floor, the scent of blood flushing to his nose and taste still lingering between his teeth. He pressed his snout to the shape in front of him, it was still warm. All these thoughts, they made him want it again. He wanted to hurt again, whether it was himself or something else, he didn’t care. He placed his sore paw atop it and sunk in his claws, staring intently as the blood seeped up through the punctures.
He dug in harder, dragging his touch down and then out. It was hard to see the cuts through the fluff, but they were there. The smell hit his nose even stronger. His chest panged, and he recoiled away, arms weak once more. The guilt was back. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it again. Sympathy and self-disgust wrapped around his body in ribbons, they pulled him down to the ground, holding him by his flanks. Everything started feeling numb again, he sweated despite huffing out clouds of icy breath. He shrank and shrank in the snow, the vast and merciless snow, but the fire roared in his head and his nostrils. He couldn’t bear to look up but it felt like ashes falling. Was she really worse? Or was he? Was he still making excuses for him, even now? Some sick sense of lingering love? He felt heavy paws on his back and claws raking against his belly, a weight on his shoulders threatened to break him. Scents of wood and toxic sweetness, bitter fruit, hot flesh in his mouth and in between his paws, all over him. He looked at his paw, his weak wrist bleeding into the rock beneath him, seeping in nonsensically. He was crying at this point, he had been, his eyes stung. He still felt empty. Blood beneath his nails, teary-eyed, wounded, and still. Nothing, for the most part. Sharp teeth tugged as the skin of his sides. He felt a deep, tight feeling in his throat, like he could vomit.
He let himself fall forward, planting throat-first onto the ground, and let out monotone moans, one after another. They grew louder, more frantic as it swelled the sorrow and fear within him, until he was wailing. He trailed into high whines and whimpers, burying his face to the floor and covering his eyes with his paws, trembling like a kitten. He felt so tiny now, soft and pathetic. He should’ve been safe. He never should’ve hurt, he never should’ve been hurt. Why did it have to be this way? Why can’t he stop even when it hurts so much?
He managed to bring himself to his feet, blinded by his own tears and face wet with mucus. He glimpsed a look at what he’d done through his blurred eyes and gagged, clumsily jerking his body in the opposite direction. He slunk low to the ground, stumbling slowly. He was shaking so much he felt like he’d trip with every step, his legs were stiff, like he almost couldn’t move. Walking felt like dragging his own useless body in tugs.
“Dad… dDaaad-d,,.!!”
The little tom yelped his first words in hours, hicced out childishly through his sobs after a minute of stumbling, voice thick from crying. He felt all limp again, collapsing down into more hysterics.
“Daddd..,.”
He whimpered with his chin against the floor, audible only to himself.
“Rook!?” A relieving voice made his ears ache. “Rook, what happened?”
“It’s- oh.. No, did you- why did you… Rook,…-“
Right in front of him now. He thrust himself forwards, practically smacking his face into his dad’s soft, pale chest fur, sobbing into him like a child. He was cold, but comfortingly so, he smelled like herbs and moon dust, mint, stars and old books. His long fur over his face was instantly soothing, pressed so hard into him he started to feel the warm skin beneath against his nose. He felt his paws pull him closer, crouching down on the grass to get more to Rook’s level.
“Shhh, shhh, deep breaths. I’m here, love.”
He tried to ease his crying, his head burned from it, his face muscles ached. His dad laid down and continued to hush him, and surprisingly, it worked. After a few minutes he’d reduced to just whimpers, coughs and quick sniffling.
“…I hate when you’re like this, why do you do this to yourself?”
“I- I don’ know, I’m ssorry…”
Shame flooded him. Ugh, why did he do this so often, every single time? It was so useless, he was stupid.
“No, it’s… not your fault, sweetheart.” He ended it with a sigh. “…We’ll take you to go see grandma soon, your paws look bad.”
He felt his tongue brush softly by the back of his ear. The nausea swirled in his chest, but he exhaled a deep breath, trying to expel it. He’d make it. He’d have to.