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He doesn’t do it often.
That counts.
He doesn’t do it often, and he only does it when he really deserves it.
You’re so fucking pathetic. They hate you and it's all your fucking fault.
It’s nice having these sharp claws. Simple lines, up and down. Repetitive. Deep, until flesh gives way to bone. Just to feel something physical, just to escape the ever present holes in his mind.
Sometimes he wishes they were angelic.
Blood tears its way out, staining the floor in red, until he starts feeling light-headed and the room fades away into a melody of bright stars.
It hurts. It hurts so fucking badly. That’s the point, right?
The itchiness is the worst part after it’s all finished. That constant buzzing, working its way through each inch of his body--reaching for his power. He feels his flesh trying to repair itself; skin attempting to stretch over deep, serrated wounds.
And failing, now. He’s too fucking weak, his ratings too low.
How long will he be stuck like this? A weak, pathetic, ugly mess of wires? His internal clock reads nothing.
But it’s fine. He’ll regenerate, sooner or later, and everything will go back to normal, and he’ll tell them it’s the last time. He’ll promise them that he will never do it again.
This is the last time, I promise.