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Spoke sat quietly in his cell. Small tears fell down his face, matching the quiet sniffles that echoed across the prison walls.
It was all so stupid. He was pathetic. He didn't cry the first couple hours stuck in Purgatory, but all of the sudden now he did. A couple null soldiers walked past his cell without even a glance to him.
His tail curled around him as he held himself tighter. He rolled his sleeves up past his wrists.
Cuts lined his forearm, a lot more than he remembered giving himself. It couldn’t hurt to add a few more, it would certainly clear his mind a bit. But, oh, he hadn’t cut in almost two months. He was trying so hard not to, so he could prove he was doing better even if it was a lie.
Who would care besides him? People would understand, Spoke, in prison, with sharp claws, something was bound to happen! Its- its not like anyone could punish him for it. There couldn’t be some dumb rule about self harm.
Spoke sighed, finally deciding to go for it. He traced over old cuts with his claws for a moment. They were a bit lighter than his natural skin tone and kinda popped out against it because of that. He should try not to go too deep this time.
He went for it, one claw digging into his skin before being pulled away quickly. A small line formed on his skin, white blood seeping out already. Fine. fine. That was fine. A cat scratch. He cut again, same everything but lower on his forearm. A couple cat scratches would be fine.
His claws danced on his skin, leaving a trail of white crying in their steps. Spoke took in sharp breaths with each cut. Sometimes he forgot how much cutting really hurt. He stared down at the new scars tracing his skin. Some tears dripped onto his arm, mixing with his blood.
Spoke looked around the room for a moment. He could maybe clean up some blood with the bedsheet. Eh, that was a later thing to worry about. He carefully rolled up his other sleeve. Both arms should be treated the same! It would be unfair to only cut on one side and leave the other bare.
His hand was a little shaky considering the arm attached to it was still bleeding. He grumbled something about Jamato being stupid before cutting hard and fast. His skin split apart. Blood streamed. His claws were really sharp, huh? He did it again, a couple more times. That arm was already lacking some deeper cuts, it was fine. He was just evening things out!
A bit of blood dripped on his tail. Maybe it was the admins’ way of telling him to stop. Either way, he liked his tail clean.
Spoke looked at the plain bed in the corner of his cell and approached it carefully, probably because they were in the nether and it would explode if touched too hard. He grabbed a corner carefully and pulled slowly until the thin blanket was off. He tore a decent amount off of a corner and gently began to wrap his wounds.
He secured the sheet with a tug before tearing off another piece and doing the same to the other arm, but with a bit more fabric. The cuts would definitely bleed through if he wasn’t careful. He looked at his arms and debated rolling down his sleeves. The knot of his makeshift bandages might be a problem and he wanted to make sure the sheet stayed on, so he opted to keep them rolled up. Besides, he couldn’t care less if people knew. Half the server probably did already with how little he hid his scars.
He thought dully to the moments that led to this. It was all Jamato’s fault. Jamato made Mapicc hate him- made everyone hate him. Without anyone maybe- maybe… it would be better if Mapicc had just killed him in the maze. Then he could die clean. He always wanted to die clean and pretty.
He was destined to die before he was 20, he knew that. One way or another, he would die either at his own hands, or someone worthy to do it for him. At least, that way he wouldn’t have to change, because what point is there to getting better if it would all go to waste before he could make any meaningful impact on the server? Everything… everything he did could be done by someone else. He was truly worthless.
Spoke grabbed the blanket and slid it around his shoulders. No warmth was gained. All the particles that made up the blanket and Spoke himself were at a near-same temperature. Therefore, very little energy was transferred between the two solids. Maybe he just wanted comfort.
Mapicc would hold him. Well, before all this. Mapicc would’ve let him cry on his shoulder then bandage his wounds softly like he had done it so many times before. But Mapicc wasn’t here. Mapicc was far away. Or close. Maybe he was in the cell right over and could hear Spoke cry. Maybe he liked that sound. Maybe he thought Spoke deserved it. Maybe he would be right to think that.
Good times were singing, they sang. After he killed Leo, he and Mapicc were supposed to go off somewhere and be happy. Just Spoke, and Spoke’s best friend. And of course Mapicc would follow him everywhere. Everything would’ve been perfect. Then null happened, then Jamato happened. And now, Purgatory happened.
Spoke’s eyes felt heavy, he cried too much. He crawled onto his side, clutching the blanket stiffly. His head rested against the cold tile. It would be nice if he died right there.
His room was still tidy, far, far away from this place. One day bandits would raid it and find what remained of his worthless life. They would loot his chests, burn the junk, then leave. Maybe they would laugh at each other for falling into some of the traps, or they would find his razors and think he liked to cut bread and not his wrists.
He hoped quietly they would.
Maybe somebody could benefit from his life.