Chapter Text
It’s not like it was an addiction. Sure, he kept coming back to it whenever he felt down or bothered by something— it was just his way of handling things. If push came to shove, he’d drop the habit all together.
Is what he told himself, anyway. Deep down, he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to get out of this misery pit. No gentle voice or grounding force would be enough for him to drop the blade and better himself. It just wasn’t feasible, who would even bother themself with his stupid habit— or with him?
The house-warden, Riddle Rosehearts.. Or not. There never really had been a reason for Riddle to interfere, not that he’s aware of whatever Cater does in his last waking moments before slumbering. As far as Caters mind was concerned, the house-wardens priorities lay with the rules, ensuring and enforcing them. Ironically enough, not a single one of the absurd and utterly nonsensical rules bore mention of any restrictions when it came to self-harm. Clearly it wasn’t an issue worth addressing or an act worth prohibiting, just do your chores and follow the rulebook. Then we’ll leave you to your own devices.
Trey Clover? Not at all. Whilst he did occupy the same dorm as Cater, the two really weren’t close enough for this sort of topic. Not that anyone else was. The latter refused to open his heart to anyone, avoiding vulnerability and closeness like the plague— the fear of being perceived by another soul was too much. The formers words only served to affirm this belief; that no matter what he did, or how much time they spent together, he’d always be closer with Riddle. Now, don’t get Cater wrong. He truly does understand where Trey is coming from, but it makes his heart ache nonetheless. Desperate for a closeness he knows he’ll never achieve because it is far too late to attempt at forming any meaningful, long lasting connections. He should’ve done so as a young child, but something so constant and grounded could never be realised when Cater never was a constant himself. From one house to another, from one region to another, he was a variable you could never let yourself get attached to, lest he pack up his things and move. Leaving you all alone.
…All of that is beside the point. What Cater needed right now was comfort. Every part of him was aching, craving the sweet escape, itching for relief. So that’s what he did. He let himself indulge in his habits, the same way he always does.
00:30 is what the clock on his phone read. Two hours past the assigned bedtime, curfew. The sheets rustled a bit and Cater stopped in his tracks, his gaze locked onto the sleeping form of his roommate. A moment of silence passes before Cater decides it’s safe to move again. He slips out of bed, vigilant and acutely aware of every noise he makes.
With slow and muffled steps he makes his way over to the shared bathroom. His phone had been left abandoned on his bed, leaving him with no other source of light other than the moonlight illuminating from outside the window. It was enough.
The door clicks shut behind him and he hastily turns the door handle, waiting for the second click to sound. Once he’s sure the door is locked, Cater heads towards the drawers beneath the sink. It doesn’t take a lot of digging until he finds his little travel purse. Stuffed to the brim with free makeup and skincare testers he’d collected over the years, a perfect spot to hide a blade. It didn’t stand out in a bathroom, nor did it look suspicious or out of place. With a little digging he manages to fish up an eyebrow razor— guardless and slightly worn. Is it the most efficient tool? Obviously not. But it gets the job done.
Plopping down on the toilet seat Cater firmly plants his feet on the floor. Staring down at his thighs, inspecting all the scars to litter his skin. There was no order in them, no care for how they looked or where they landed, just ugly marks. He sighs internally, too zoned out to sigh physically.
‘So not cammable..’ a voice passes through his head— silently mocking him for how hideous it all looked. Most of the scars were purple with the occasional tinge of red, streaks of colour upon streaks of white. Bulging out of his skin, creating an uneven and bumpy surface. Whilst no pain actually remained, Cater swore he could feel the persistent ache remain in the larger scars.
‘Welp! No matter.’ He shurgs, his fingers tightening their grip on the blade. Throwing it a quick glance he brings it to the inside of his thigh, pressing the sharp tip onto the flesh. With a second of hesitation he presses down harder, until it stings, making him draw in a sharp breath. Immediately he swipes— dragging the edge across as fast as possible, not letting up any pressure until the very end.
There’s no blood. It stings, at first, then it goes numb. He’s met with a sickly white. Cater squints, bringing his free hand up to the wound. With his index and middle finger on each side, he spreads the cut. Pulling it further with no regard for the sting he inspects it. A moment of silence passes before he sighs again. This time it’s out loud. A wave of disappointment hits him; his stomach sinks and he scowls. The white remains for sometime longer before the crimson starts to seep in.
He swipes again. Pressing down as hard as he did earlier. It doesn’t hurt, not really, all it does is go numb. Physically, he can’t feel anything but a slow growing heat spreading throughout his thigh. Going deeper always felt like an achievement, something Cater wanted to brag about to no one in particular. But his body goes rigid, a slow ever growing sense of pure dread settles in his chest. His mind blanks for a moment as he’s suddenly struck with a wave of lightheadedness and dizziness.
His pulse spikes and his breath catches. Caters eyes twitch and beads of cool sweat form on his forehead. He tries to grin to himself, convince himself it’s okay— that it doesn’t feel like he’s about to throw up and pass out and die all at the same time. He looks back down at the injury trying to keep his mind on one single thing, trying to focus on anything but the bile in his throat and the panic clawing at his heart.
“Fuck- fuck.. no, no, it’s okay.. It’s okay, calm down Cay-Cay.” He mutters to himself with an evident stammer.
He wasn’t afraid of the consequences that would come with cutting so deep, neither did he regret his actions. But regardless he still couldn’t seem to control the terror gripping his lungs and sinking its claws in.
The cut widens, tearing further. No longer is he met with a blank white that seems to mock him with its purity. This time, there’s slimy chunks of yellow peeking through. A burst of colour amongst the white. It still doesn’t hurt. It feels rewarding, gratifying. It would fill him with a sense of pride if not for his current predicament.
Whatever. He’ll clean it up and head to bed, like he always does.