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Cecil picked at his skin when he was eleven years old. He thought that dad wasn’t coming home because he wasn’t getting good grades in school. Mom told him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was hers, but he didn’t quite believe her. And anyways, picking at his skin felt nice. It was like peeling all of his mistakes and replacing them with blood, letting them heal over as shiny scars on his forearms and the back of his hands.
The scratches got infected a lot but he learned how to take care of them so they wouldn’t. He learned that band aids keep out sickness and running water over them makes for bad scabs but less infection.
—-
When he was thirteen he learned how to take razor blades out of the holders (melt the handle away with a candle you bought with the money from your paper route, keep blobs of plastic attached to your desk to remind you that you’re a failure). He bought a giant bag of those cheap, throw away razors because the blades were just as sharp as anything and he kept them under his bed, it’s not like his mom went into his room anyway.
He moved slowly up his arms, ruining his left first with eternal criss crossing pencil marks, then ruining the right the same way. He didn’t think much about doing it, just knew that every night before bed he made a blood sacrifice, trying to fill the hole in his chest. It never worked, not really, because whenever he woke up it was back, tearing him apart from the inside. He thought that maybe he’d been possessed but he was too afraid to anyone because then they’d see he’d been trying to solve it himself and they’d prosecute him for vigilantism.
—-
When he was fifteen he discovered that a sharp pair of scissors worked just as well as razors did and that the scars were red and puffy and scissor cuts always bled more than razor blade cuts. He had a job at Rico’s now, just washing dishes. He rolled up his sleeves and kept his arms under the water the whole time and no one noticed.
He wore button up shirts, convinced his mom that it was the only sort of thing he wanted to wear, that he had acne on his shoulders and arms so she bought him button ups and acne cream which Cecil kept under his bed with the razor blades and pretended to use, asking for a new bottle every few months.
—-
He ended up in the hospital once. Only once and he’s proud of this. He hadn’t been tring to kill himself but Earl Harlan wouldn’t stop talking to him and making him feel bad about not going to prom with him. The hole in his chest had spread beyond just his chest, it had taken over his head too and made his eyes leak. He’d just been trying to see if he could deflate himself, maybe it was just a blister that needed to be popped.
Cecil stayed in the hospital for a month. All of his razors were taken away and the three pairs of scissors he had were thrown away. He wasn’t allowed to shave by himself, he wasn’t even allowed thumbtacks.
The mental care in Night Vale was lacking, definitely, because the gibbering sort of people you’d find in a hospital like this were outside on the street and the sort of people who insisted there was a God and that the moon was a rock in the sky, not a gentle demon watching over us were in here. It was a sad, empty place where no one dreamed and all of Cecil’s thoughts were whitewashed out of his head and the hole was filled with empty lies and the words ‘it will be okay’.
He went three years without looking at a razor blade other than something to shave with and only used scissors to cut paper and cardboard and hair. He still picked at his skin but he told himself it couldn’t be helped, that at least it wasn’t something other than his own hands tearing at his skin.
He got tattoos to cover up what had already been done. He took a trip to Europe thinking that maybe he’d find a nice, small country to live in. He’d find a blond haired, blue eyed wife to kiss him at night and have children with but all Europe did was make time move quicker and made the hole feel filled with a numbing, furry cotton.
The night he got home from Europe he found that his mother had moved out. Moved on, actually and that he was alone. He stopped at the store and bought a bag of disposable razors and scented candles and didn’t let himself cry even though his voice cracked when he told the young woman behind the counter that he didn’t need a bag, he could carry this himself.
He stayed in a motel because going home was too painful. He bled onto toilet paper, laying flat on his back and cutting his stomach over and over until he fell asleep in a haze of numbing pain and whispered comforts heard in his own voice.
—-
When Carlos saw he cried, fat, horrible tears falling down his cheeks as he ran hands over Cecil’s marred skin and whispered his name over and over. All Cecil could feel was shame, for all of this. He’d thought that maybe Carlos would understand, he would say he was proud of Cecil for not letting the darkness take over but all Carlos did was cry.
He should have known this would happen. He was scarred and broken and ugly and Carlos was… Carlos was perfect. He didn’t deserve Carlos and was already thinking about etching more red lines into his skin after Carlos said it was over.
But then he heard something else and he thought about crying too.
"I love you," Carlos said and leaned forward to press his lips to Cecil’s. "Cecil, I love you so much. I’m going to help you stop. I… I’m going to help you get better."
Cecil felt trapped, only able to watch through dead eyes as Carlos pressed kisses to marked skin.
"Are you alright?"
"No."
"Should I stop?"
"No."
"Do you want to get better, Cecil? Do you want to stop?”
"If you want me to. I’ll stop for you."
Carlos looked like he might cry again but then he swallowed and kissed Cecil’s mouth, strong hands wrapping around Cecil’s waist, reminding him that he was real and that Carlos was real and this was real. He let himself cry real tears for the first time in a long time.