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The lighter lay in his open palm, fingers slowly uncurling their grasp. He winces, trying his hardest to not cry.
There was a patient today. An attempt, almost hung himself. He was around Robby's age, no family around. Of course he was there for the psych consult, of course he gave the guy words of advice he had never used himself.
He looked down at his thighs staring at the little burn marks scattered across his skin. Cutting just didn't do it for him. He placed the lighter in his bedside drawer and made his way to the bathroom.
Under the harsh, cold light of the bathroom, he stared at himself. He hated it. Those eyes that looked back at him. Eyes of his own. They were done, ready to give up. He was ready to give up.
He washed his face, not bringing his head back up. He hated looking at himself and all that was returned was himself. He hated seeing himself. In mirrors, in others.
He doesn't get why he does it. He barks and bites at people he loves because they've become too much like him. Too much like they're ready to give up.
He tried psychiatrists but it doesn't help. It never does. He ends up lying, downplaying it or not speaking at all. Sometimes silence is better than the truth.
Silence is always there. It englufs him when he's alone, taking his body for its own. It fills up his head and doesn't let go until he walks into the ED again and his head is filled with all the different sounds.
Eventually he lifts his head from the basin, avoiding his own eyes as much as possible. He flicks off the light switch and lies back in bed.
He drags his fingers over the small burns on his legs, pushing at them. He doesn't look, he never does. He just lets it engluf him again. He had grown used to it.