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He had never thought about it until he first got his sickles for his birthday all those sweeps ago. They had been a present from his lusus, and he had been so excited. He thought that this was his way of saying ‘Go son, join the others’. But it wasn’t – it was a way to defend himself from those who wanted to kill him for being ‘mutant scum’. He knew that now.
His lusus had been so panicked the first time he had cut himself, not a few hours after starting practice with the sickles. He had nicked himself on the leg after falling over, tripping over his too long trousers and falling flat on his arse, blade slicing through his trouser leg and catching the skin of his shin. Red blood had oozed out of the cut, running down his leg and onto the floor outside his hive. Crabdad had been there within seconds, ushering him inside and cleaning the wound before wrapping it tight in bandages, under which was a small plaster obscuring the cut and any blood from view.
His bright, bright red blood.
The same day that he had got his sickles, was also the same day he was presented with the only written copies of the Sufferer’s struggles. The same day he got his sickles was the same day he learnt that he was a freak, and that he was never meant to have existed.
He never tried to go out and play with the other trolls after that.
It was a few sweeps later when he finally got sick of being cooped up indoors, staring at a computer screen and writing through the mysterious grey text that he opted to use. Not red. He hated the colour red. He had been alone. Crabdad was out, he had the hive to himself, and he got to thinking.
What if he didn’t have red blood? What if he had no blood at all? Then he could go outside. Then he could be normal. So he grabbed one of his sickles and cut deep, over and over, watching the cherry liquid leak from his arms and onto the floor. He would drain it. Every last drop. He would stop being a mutant. No blood. No blood at all.
He dropped to his knees, head light and body sluggish, vision blurring. He began to fall forwards and landed into some hard, almost skeletal arms. His lusus. And then everything went black...
Apparently wounds healed into a scar the colour of your blood, he noted with disgust as he stared at the numerous red lines marring his arms. All the way from just above his wrist to the crook of his elbow – on both arms. There were scars on his legs too. He had cut anywhere he thought there was an artery. His neck, his stomach, his arms, legs... all streaked with those horrible red reminders of his deformity.
He made sure to always wear trousers from then on out – close fitting trousers, so that they didn’t accidentally ride up. Oh, and long sleeved jumpers with turtle necks. He was basically a walking pile of cloth the amount of skin he had to cover up.
He tried not to look in the mirror.
He tried not to look at himself whilst getting changed.
And he so desperately tried not to cry, knowing that his tears were also reminders of the swill that flowed through his veins.
He wanted to be invisible. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about his secret being blown – about his fate being the same as his ancestors. He wanted to not exist. Yellow eyes that would one day turn red as he matured glanced at his sickles. Hands clenched into fists.
He could end it. He knew he could.
But he didn’t – for some god-damned reason he didn’t do it. He never did. Just lived and festered in the hatred that was slowly consuming his entire being.
And as his lusus screeched from downstairs, and his argument with Sollux drew to a close, he drew his sleeves down over the scars and the pain and the reminders that he was... he was...
A mutant red-blood.
A waste of space.
That he was Karkat Vantas.