Work Text:
Karl Marx sighed and dipped his quill into the ink, trying not to stab it into his wrist for the 100th time today. He was tired, tired of getting rejected, tired of pretending he's fine when he's not, he was just so fucking tired.
He stood up, putting the quill back on the table and pulled up his sleeves. He saw all the times he cut himself with various sharp objects.
Marx began to drag his nails into his skin until there were more slashes covering his arm. He did this over and over, not caring about the loss of blood.
All he could think about during these moments were the times he had faked his happiness and pretended he was not affected by the things others had said about him.
In reality, he was affected. Every day, he would come home, grab a knife, and start cutting. He would cut for hours. He would end just as his wife and/or daughters would come in, wiping it off like he had never hurt himself in the first place.
After a few minutes, Marx pulled out a roll of bandages and began wrapping his arms with it. He then grabbed a long-sleeved jacket in order to hide the blood.
"Karl, are you ready to go?" Engels said.
"Yes. Almost ready." Marx replied.
Engels walked into the room and saw Marx wrapping his arm in bandages.
"Are you ok?" Engels replied with concern.
"I'm fine." he lied.