Work Text:
Ash lay on his side, mindlessly scrolling past another stupid redit story. Glancing at the time, 2am, he knew he should be asleep by now. He knew that he had to get up for school again tomorrow, but he kept scrolling.
Passing the same redit story rebranded by different acounts, it felt like it was mocking him, painfully ai generated voice standing out through the silence, "Am I the asshole for telling my trans 'son' that she will never be a boy?"
The question was idiotic really, but it drew in comments so again, it showed up on his for you page.
Truthfully the story bothered him more than he would like to admit, reflecting a sad example of his own life. A sad reality where he was the trans son. Ash's parents didnt care for what he identified as, they would only ever see him as their 'daughter'.
It felt so fake, like he was an actor on a stage, simply awaiting for the curtains to draw to a close and the audience to clap. But he did not know when the curtains would draw shut, so he kept playing along to the same old story, itchy dresses feeling like ash on his skin, smiles feeling like masks he would be weak to take off, makeup forced on him to make him look some semblance of normal.
Ash lay there, phone discarded by his side as he stared at his ceiling, tracing the same old cracks in the drywall. Repeating the dumb story that set him off. Meanwhile, a box bore itself into the back of his mind, showing a past of blades, and bloodied thighs.
He knew he shouldnt, hell he was clean for fucks sake. He swore to squiddo he would never do it again. But the box kept whispering, it sang, it screamed.
Squiddo didnt have to know. Right?
He crept up from his spot, sprawled across his bed, to the shelf. The box sat their, taunting him to do it. Whispering of secrets kept, promises broken, and bliss. One singular moment, when the thoughts would quiet, and all their was, was pain.
He didnt realise he had already removed the box from its peaceful perch, disturbing dust that had never had the previous chance to form. He had told squiddo he got rid of them, that he would never harm himself on purpose ever again. But, what was wrong with a little secret, a little white lie?
After all, it wouldnt be the first one, he hadnt even told her that he was trans, she still thought she was dating a girl. Nevermind that though, the point was, thus wasnt the only thing he was keeping from her.
It would just be, a secret, a small mistake made between himself and his walls. A tiny moment of weakness. A one time thing.
Before he had even realised, the blade was pressed against the scarred skin of his thigh. It felt like deja vu, he wanted to joke. But to who? The imaginary audience he convinced himself existed in his head.
Ash ran the blade across it, reveling in the flare of pain and moment of silence. Though it was always brief, and he missed it as soon as it was gone. As the tiny droplets of blood pooled on the mark, the voices returned with a cacophany of contradictions.
'Is that all you can manage?' 'Man up its not that bad' 'your just doing it for attention' 'why didnt you go deeper?' 'You should have kept your promise'
Bad enough, that Ash hastily pressed the blade against his skin once more, silencing the voices. So he did it again. And again. And again. The same flare of pain, the same moment of peace. Until his thigh was consumed by a blur of red.
He waited, and, nothing. His imaginary audience seemed satiated. Rewarding him with silence. Usually thus was when the thoughts came back, just quieter, but he wasnt one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Almost roboticly, he dried the blood, and returned the box to its place on his shelf.
Knowing he would probably regret that in the morning, he sighed in resignation. Lying back down across his bed, finally turning off his phone, he tried to sleep.
Once more staring at his ceiling, he lay their, too tired to stay awake, but too awake to sleep. Turning over, the cuts made their presence known once more. Flaring with a pain ash hated, but knew he deserved. He sighed, watching the minutes tick by, as he thought.
Usually, his thoughts circled the same question. why?
Why could he never do anything right?
Why did he break everything he touched?
Why do i do this to myself?
Why am I like this?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
And as the ragged claws of sleep finally dragged him under, ash was consumed by a feeling of dread and a far too familiar wish, that he wouldnt wake up in the morning.