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Ever since he was fourteen, with low self esteem, Jesse had turned to cutting.
It was a stability in his life, and over time the punishment evolved from purely painful to calming. A button in his brain that got pushed enough times in the same situation that the meaning became distorted.
If his parents were disappointed in him, if he fell out with his friends, if his grades were low, if he felt just that stupid. Nothing else was as effective as kneeling on bathroom tiles and dragging a razor across his thighs - but weed came pretty close.
He always took care of the injuries, buying adhesive wound dressing in bulk, a fabric square haphazardly stuck on top of his recent cuts at all times.
Cutting was a habit that carried on well into his twenties, and when Mr White approached him and they began their partnership - the habit only got worse.
Through his whole life Jesse found things to punish himself for - in any and every scenario (nitpicking his mistakes, or calming his mind for flying off the handle), but now that the horrifically dark events of his life were encapsulating him - the cutting became more frantic. Deeper. Genuine punishment. He was a killer now, and no amount of weed or meth or pills would undo that, and none would genuinely punish him in the way that cutting could.
Today his house was mess. There were junkies in his living room, an everlasting party hosted by Jesse. Windows shattered, walls graffitied, floors coated in grime and trash. He had killed Gale two and a half weeks ago and the older man's puppy dog eyes still burned into his retinas. A man who didn't want to die. A man who didn't deserve to die. Who was begging for his life.
The drugs weren't sitting right, not numbing his pain. Jesse felt the memories closing in on - him more intense than ever.
He was in his bedroom, where a few people lay on the ground - sleeping off the endless alcohol that Jesse's house encaged. He staggered from his bed to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to vomit.
When he needed to forget he took drugs - and if that didn't work?
Jesse snatched his razor out from under the bathroom cupboard. He didn't give a damn if people stole most belongings from him - except for this. If anyone stole his razor and he be wouldn't be able to cut during a panic attack: he would most likely implode, probably die on the spot of stress or something.
He settled himself against the wall, pulling his jeans down with shaky hands. Old scars littered his upper legs, layers upon layers of history cut into his skin. He rubbed the healing cuts with a thumb, then lightly traced over the deep, jagged scars with his blade, until finally pushing down with force over a smoother section of his skin. A healed flat section needing fresh marks. He tilted the blade down to it's full length, resting it on it's side, and then pushed it across, splitting open the skin. Beads of dark red blood formed instantly along the line.
He made a second cut, a little longer but equally deep. The blood from the first cut began escaping it's line, droplets uniting and becoming heavy, rolling down his thigh. Neither cut was deep enough, he wasn't satisfied.
He moved to his other leg, pulling off his last bandage, the skin more tacky from being under fabric a day or two. Jesse pushed the blade down again, not moving it across the skin until he was content with the amount of pressure applied. Then he quickly sliced to the side, the blood pouring instantly. Cutting quickly often resulted in a bigger cut, Jesse found, as with speed he didn't let his cautious brain get in the way.
He was getting a little dizzy, but his brain was focused, for the first time that day he wasn't completely spinning out.
The blood from the third cut began to pool under his thigh, the colour a deep and beautiful red, and he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride at the sight.
Jesse exhaled, head leaning back against the wall.
Cutting was punishment - first and foremost. But, it grounded him, relaxed him. It reminded him who he was.
He shut his eyes and let the minutes pass by, the sharp sting across his thighs let his brain focus on his body and not his mind. Mental pain trumped by physical.
When he opened his eyes again the first two cuts had stopped dripping blood almost completely. He dabbed them with toilet paper before sticking one large square of adhesive dressing over them both.
Then he eyed the larger cut. It was still bleeding, a sluggish flow. A pool of blood practically circling his leg, seeping into his jeans which weren't kicked down enough.
Jesse reached for more toilet paper to dab it but more blood just kept rolling off of his thigh.
It wasn't like he'd cut open the major artery in his leg, right, he'd be fine. He'd cut deeper before and survived. But the blood loss was getting pretty dramatic... so why couldn't he stop himself from smiling.