Chapter Text
He didn't know what had happened.
Everything had unfolded in overlapping minutes, and he could no longer tell whether any of it had truly happened or not.
He had picked the fight on purpose. He had said words whose effects he already knew, yet he kept saying them anyway, spitting them out like poison—or perhaps more accurately, like sulfur thrown onto dry straw.
He had known from the beginning how every conversation would end, and he continued all the same because Sven had never been good at setting limits for himself.
He had wanted this. He had acted according to his own desires, and perhaps he did not regret it all that much. But were they really supposed to let him leave every time without begging him to stay?
He would have liked someone to care enough to notice his absence, to ask about him.
Unfortunately, most of the people who had ever asked about him had not done so with good intentions.
And he could not blame them.
How could he blame them when he was always the cause of everything and the first suspect whenever something went wrong?
The accusing fingers had never been mistaken.
If anything, they had been completely right.
He had simply never admitted it.
In any case, even his cousin no longer spent time with him. He no longer bothered to talk to him or even look at him.
Sven didn't see that as a problem.
The other had a better life to pursue instead of throwing himself into whatever pit Sven occupied.
He watched his cousin improve, accomplish things, and move forward in ways anyone could recognize as admirable—things that would undoubtedly lead to a quiet, comfortable future filled with stability.
Sven still wasn't sure whether he would even live long enough to have a future.
He simply moved through his days without truly experiencing them.
Sometimes he felt as though he wasn't living them at all.
As if he remained somewhere in the background while his body did all the work for him.
He no longer had the energy.
He had spent his entire life exhausting himself, and now that he had finally reached the end of the road—
He was too tired to keep walking.
Days would pass without him showering. The bathroom door remained unopened until minutes before he was supposed to meet someone.
He would arrive with wet hair and a damp patch across the back of his shirt from how long it had become.
He was too tired to cut it.
And he didn't have the money to pay someone else to.
Dirty dishes continued piling up in his room. He felt no desire to wash them, eat from them, or even look at them.
At some point, he had developed an aversion to food itself.
He no longer ignored it.
He no longer merely lacked an appetite.
The sight of it disgusted him.
And he hated himself for that too, knowing how hard his parents worked to provide it.
He envied his siblings for getting into university and leaving home behind.
Though perhaps he pitied their youngest brother, abandoned whenever they packed their bags and left.
Not that Sven cared about them that much.
But why did they have to be so capable?
So intelligent?
So independent?
Now all he could do was stare at textbooks as if they had personally wronged him.
His eyes were dry.
His heart was tired.
His glasses dug painfully into the sides of his head while a faint ringing lingered in his ears.
He watched equations blur together on the page.
Nothing stayed where it was supposed to.
His voice felt unsteady.
Even the way he sat felt wrong as he desperately tried to remember things he had spent months studying.
His exam was in three days.
And he could not remember any of the material he had reviewed over the past three months.
If he failed to get into university—
Maybe he would just kill himself.
It would be easier that way.
He couldn't bear the humiliation.
The expectations.
The weight of everything that had settled onto his shoulders.
After hours of studying, his thoughts drowned whatever rationality he still possessed.
So he picked up a pen and drew simple lines across his skin, hoping the motion alone would keep him from relapsing.
He didn't want to.
At least not right now.
He needed his wrists clean.
One of his relatives was getting married soon, and he would have to wear one of his off-shoulder dresses.
Ever since his mother had discovered his habits, she had insisted on clothing that left his arms exposed.
It had been humiliating.
Everyone had asked about marks whose origins they already knew.
They had pressed and pressed anyway.
He had borrowed his friends' hoodies so often that he ended up keeping most of them.
He was tired of the questions.
Tired of being touched.
If he managed to stay clean for a full year, that would be enough.
He wanted proof that he could keep going.
Proof that, for once in his miserable life, he could be good at something.
So he stopped.
Closed the book.
Because if he wasn't good enough now, he never would be.
Then he looked around his room.
And God, it was awful.
Nothing was clean.
Nothing was organized.
Except for his wardrobe.
And most of the clothes inside weren't even his anymore, considering how full the laundry basket had become.
How long had it been since he'd actually looked at his room?
Long enough for it to reach this state.
Then again, it wasn't surprising.
The past few weeks existed only as a hazy memory of waking up and spending hours lying in bed, trying to convince himself to shower so he could meet people who genuinely cared about him.
Maybe they did.
He didn't know.
...
He had to get out of here.
It was only three in the afternoon, but he needed to leave.
He wasn't sure he could stay any longer.
So he grabbed whatever he could fit into a bag.
He stole someone's hoodie from the pile without recognizing the designs printed across it and pulled it on.
Then he climbed out through the window.
And never looked back.
The metallic clinking from inside his bag kept drawing his attention back to what he really wanted.
...
...
...
The walk itself was ordinary.
The route from his house wound through streets he knew by heart and past small shops desperately trying to earn enough to survive.
Yet it wasn't comfortable.
Not really.
The farther he walked from his books, the stranger the air felt.
Instead of being the diligent son everyone wanted him to be, he was wandering through the streets wearing a hoodie that wasn't his and carrying a bag that held something small, cold, metallic, spotless.
And every time his thoughts drifted—
They returned to the blade.
He didn't know why he had brought it with him.
But he had.
And despite how badly he wanted to stay clean, the thought of returning to old habits felt comforting.
Like medicine.
Like temptation.
He found himself standing still, quietly weighing his options.
Who would stop him?
Really.
Who would stop him from doing anything right now?
He could do whatever he wanted.
He was free.
And that much was true.
Who would recognize him?
Yes, he was troublesome.
Annoying.
A student with a record of disciplinary reports.
But on days like this, that worked in his favor.
People rarely volunteered to speak to him in the first place.
So if he did something now—
Nobody would bother him.
And if he didn't—
Wouldn't that be a waste of his freedom?
...
...
Maybe he should take advantage of it.