Work Text:
Glancing at your phone, it is 1 in the morning, you shouldve been in your recuperacoon hours ago, but here you are, sitting on the lid of your load gaper in your ablution trap. Your mind fills with an unknown emotion as you nervously eye the blade on the countertop, some sort of terror, but not the scared kind, no, this feeling wasn't negative in the slightest. Excitement maybe? You couldn't care less about naming your current emotion, you instead scroll through the various images cataloged in your Chittr bookmarks. The photos are all composed of different carvings, of various depths and hues of blood. Nothing peaks your interest until you come across a rust-blood's cut, It's 8 slashes to the epidermis, aligned in the shape of a small spiderweb. A bit too shallow for your taste, but the design is just perfect.
"Okay, don't pussy out, Serket... This'll look gr8 healed! Scarification is the most 8adass look on anyone, you'll 8e so cool." You whisper to yourself, grabbing the damaged blade, pinching it between thumb and forefinger, bringing it down apprehensively to the exposed flesh of your grey thighs.
So cool, soooooooo cool ::::)
Repeating words of assurance in your head, you gain the courage and quickly press the blade down and draw the first line. Phew, your squeezed eyes open and peer at the damage, once grey now cerulean, the cut beads lightly with blood. Shit, this won't scar with this depth, you'll have to multiswipe.
You bring the blade down again, pressing down on the beginning of the wound with much more pressure than before,
SWIPE
You look down at the cut once again,
Holy shit
Yellow beads of the hypodermis smushed against one another can be seen, blood quickly begins to pool into the crevices of yellow. The blue smeared blade clatters down onto the tile as your hands fall down to close the wound in a panic,
what the fuck did you do, Vriska,
you repeat to yourself that you didn't even press down that hard as navy fluids force themselves out of the gap in your flesh, despite your efforts to seal the gash. Breath quickens as your blood pusher seems to be working overtime, adrenaline overwhelms you, as well as the stinging pain at your thigh that only seems to worsen as you clammer up to get yourself into the shower as soon as possible, blood gushes everywhere in the movement.
You're so fucking scared as you turn the water on and let go of the wound to clean your hands with a bar of soap. You drop the product after your done with it and scoop the droplets carefully onto the gash, hissing at the startling sharp pain the effort brings to your shocked nerves. Ceasing the shoveling of water onto the depth, you're able to take a good look at it now that your hands are no longer pressing it shut. It doesn't help that no matter what, your limbs don't cease the quaking as you gaze, the gush of blue eased into a steady drip as you bring a finger tip to press both hesitantly and curiously inside the wound. It feels....almost like Vaseline, or butter, or something especially lardy alike to those, whatever the sensation you receive from the prodding, it makes you unbelievably nauseous.
Withdrawing the hand from the wound, your palms press into your colorless face, fearful sobs concealed under the spray of the shower.
You only allow yourself to leave after the bleeding ends, which has always been apart of your routine rules for post-cutting. This time is an exception though, because even after sitting on floor of the shower for over 40 minutes, the bleeding still trickled slowly, and didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. You took extra care of this one, never had you known how terrible reaching the hypodermal level would be. On Chittr, you had only seen young trolls hopeful of reaching the level, truthfully, it was desired by most. Scars you've seen of this depth protrude disgustingly, but you never opposed the idea of reaching the said depth, if anything, it would pose as a symbol of your bravery and resistance to most, and lets just say you don't mind people seeing those qualities in you. But, after this, you know they're not true, you had never been even the least amount of brave throughout this entire experience, and that's the part that has torn you up the most, you felt like a puny, helpless wriggler, and that feeling remains as you stare at your feet returning your gaze to your phone once again
it is now 4 in the morning
Grabbing the device, you locate to your favorite teal blooded troll's direct messages on trollian. What would she think of you? She'd take pity, she'd nose you as the pathetic little wriggler you are for reaching out, for venting. But you desire comfort, no, not even that, you desire just to inform, to tell someone about what you had just endured. Cerulean-tinged tears peek from the corners of your eyes as you idly stare into the Trollian screen. You make your decision and throw the phone to the wall with all of your might.
It's probably broken
You don't care as it falls down into the pile of mangled 8-balls.
You don't care as the makeshift bandage you'd made began to peel and crinkle off.
You don't care as it divots into the gash uncomfortably deep.
You don't care as you sink yourself into the sopor of the recuperacoon anyway.
You especially don't mind the dull aching all of this causes you.
you drift away into lethargy, broken,
And you care.