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The light from the computer screen hurt his eyes.
Mark's been staring at various blog entries from the past few years, reminiscent of a time long past. They're all written in a distinctly younger voice—one that's his, and isn't all at once. They're familiar, unfamiliar, but he knows every word and remembers his shaking adolescent fingers typing away at the keyboard, blood rushing to each of his fingertips.
Recovery is weird.
It's nearly midnight now, the nerves inside him bundled into a messy package. In some ways, he wants to tear himself open, stare at his glistening organs soaked in red, the tarnished white of his bones. Mark really wants to stare at himself in a mirror, watch every part of him rot away until he's nothing but a skeleton.
But that's not going to happen. Things rarely go the way he plans.
Recovery is weird.
A blog post from four years ago reads something similar to his own thoughts.
the urge to die has never been stronger, i want to die so badly i want to tear my spine out of my body and strangle myself with my own entrails god please just take me away
i'm so desperate for red
That had been from the beginning, when death seemed like the only available option to him and his destructive mind.
As the years go on, they get progressively easier to swallow, still along the same vein, though. Three years ago, he finds out.
they told me it's supposed to stop at some point and it's been so long i don't know who i am anymore, i don't know who looks back at me when i stare in the mirror i don't feel anything
i'm so tired
i just want to sleep forever
He thinks of himself now. Still tired. Still wanting to sleep. Still wanting to find whatever happiness is supposed to be.
i just want to be happy
why is that so much to ask?
Why is that so much to ask?
Two years ago.
it's not better yet
why don't you love me?
because you're unlovable. stupid, selfish, unlovable.
h a ha ahahaha aaaaaa
it's so red
my fingers hurt
One year ago.
mom cried when she saw the cuts. i didn't want to make her cry
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm so ryy
they put me on meds today. i hope they work.
i'm tired of being this way
His head hurts.
A year ago is when he met Jack, too.
Mark finds a smile at that.
Recovery is weird.
He's at 6 months ago when a gentle knock comes on the door.
“Mark?”
Mark blinks, shifting his gaze to the door. A mess of green hair greets him.
“You okay?” Jack asks, even though, given his gaze, he already knows the answer.
He nods mutely.
And he is, in some ways. Mark still wants to hurt himself. He still wants to drown himself in his own blood. He still wants to tear the bones out of himself and leave himself to be a spineless sack of meat on the ground, immobile.
But some days he doesn't. Some days he feels normal. The vague inkling about what happiness could be. Some days he doesn't wake up and feel the ache of the world, of living; some days he actually feels content with his existence.
Butterfly kisses with Jack, watching movies with Jack, the static that courses through him whenever Jack's gentle but sure fingers press into his skin.
Mark could get used to that static. The one that doesn't suffocate, but relaxes.
Jack bridges the gap between them, crossing the space, leaning down to look at his screen. Mark is past the point of hiding things from him. Jack always finds out anyway.
He expects him to be angry, looking through his older posts. They only bring him an eerie sense of grief. But Jack doesn't really say anything about it. He presses a kiss to Mark's head.
“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, soft and tender in the darkness of the room. “You're doing great.”
His lips alight something in his chest, and Mark leans into his touch, just to feel it again, to make it grow. Jack is all but willing to spin his desk chair, kneeling down in front of him, smoothing his hands along every part of him.
Jack knows this comforts him, even if he doesn't know why.
“I love you,” Mark says, not really knowing what else there is to say. He laces his and Jack's fingers together.
Jack's smile is radiant. “And I love you. One day at a time, love.”
One day at a time. Recovery is weird, but he takes it one day at a time.