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He really couldn’t feel much of anything anymore.
What once was the bite of a blade into his skin now felt like a playful pressure. Though his blood still pooled all the same. Dripping down the sides of his forearm, onto old, polished, wood. It sunk into the grain and stained the crevices dark.
Why must he do this? So his filthy, murdering, blood can spill. So he can feel it, rooting into his veins, such is the pain he inflicted upon others. The guilt of his actions seethe through his fingertips, into that blade, and back into him.
Disgusting—he is. This would accomplish nothing but a cycle of pain. Yet, bathed in blood, he only felt light. Like a drying shirt in the breeze or a paper pinned down by a weight. Able to flutter and move with the wind, but held so tightly as to not fly away.
Gods, his chest hurts. It was deep, not sharp or aching, but hot. At his inhale, it would briefly subside before nestling back into him at the next breath. Soon after, it may twist in his stomach or leech the blood from his hands, leaving them feeling shaky—numb.
He wishes he could leave all emotion behind, truly blank. But then, what would he be but those that he tinkers with? He felt, although he may gradually become numb, his emotions eventually made their return in their usual unsavory manners.
Back again, in his head. Somehow, he blinks. Stuck in the corner of his room. His own room, not the common barracks that housed the others—full of bunk beds and stale air. He was grateful for such a thing, privacy. Father had trusted him enough to give him an area of his own. A place where he’s allowed to muck about with his machines and such until he’s pulled away.
He’s really only ruined the space, though, he thinks. No posters decorate the walls, and there are truly few common “homely” items. Instead there is spare diving gear, bits and pieces, and full parts of machines. Whether metal, wood, or other, they littered areas across his floor, desk, even his shelves were weighed down. It felt more like a workspace or a treasure hoarder’s junk drawer than a bedroom. Perhaps if not for the bed, window, and dresser, it could be one.
Other than this, the only decor is the sparse pictures he has of his siblings, though most are tucked away in boxes or drawers. And yet again, if one wishes to look past the rust and slight sentimentals, the signs of life become increasingly apparent. His unmade bed, the scuffs on the floor, and the chipped paint on the walls—the blood trickling and tinting the floor.
He huffs, something that had been building up; it left his chest feeling as hollow as before. Maybe his lungs had finally fallen out of his body, finding no use for a machine such as himself. It sounded again, like a rhythm. He feels he can’t help but sigh, that maybe he can exhale his pain and numbness away.
The skin of his arms split into two, then four, then eight. Blood spilling over the wounds, blanketing his arms with it. The blade isn’t exceptionally sharp; he still has to press quite a bit to draw any blood. Even a scratch takes some work, but when it does—what a wonderful feeling it is. He feels the rush of it hit up his spine and into his head, like a pinball machine. It rattles around and wraps into his tissues, constricting any loose emotion into that rapturous feeling. Every cut numbs his arm further, covering scar tissue with more soon to come. He remembers when he couldn’t even push the tip of the blade to himself, for his skin would sting and he’d flinch—even without blood drawn.
Now though, he can hardly feel his arm. Even before pressing a blade to it, the skin is paresthesied. The scars are much more visible under the light, even more from a certain angle. White fibrous tissue and collagen stretching, forming branches of itchy skin. Around the fresher ones, it was pink and scabrous and peeled like a sunburn. The eldest was pale and thin, nearly blending in with his natural color. Running his fingers over the limb, raised, grainy lines could be felt. He swallows, sharp in his throat.
His eyes run down it, skipping over the drying blood. Congealed to him, if he pulled at his skin, it would certainly break apart; cracking over its barrier to expose him. The process was always so straightforward, heady and bright, the cleanup was the worst. With it came the fading high, the sting, the mess. The pain from cleanup was always a different kind of pain, a sharp sting from the wet cloth running over the cuts, irritating his skin further red. Then afterwards, he’d take the same cloth to the floor, the walls, the furniture. Blood had the capabilities of getting in the strangest places, truly. It dripped, ran, was flung and slung, hurled; when splattered it could reach farther than one might think, as with most fluid.
It wasn’t that he hated pain, it just wasn’t the main motivator for his actions. He deserved to be punished, to be beaten down and feel shame. And what better way to experience that than by his own doing? To draw his own blood and feel pain not from another source, from another man, woman, or other; but from his own hands that knew what he had done with them. To view the carmine bubble up to sight, just after the pull and the sting, for it to pool and drop, leaving its trail abaft on his skin.
He’d only ever cut deep enough to bleed and peel back the epidermis, revealing the white he’d scratched into. Cutting any deeper seemed exhilarating but terrifying. To go from the deeper red in upper layers to the bright colors deeper down. He remembered all the times he had carved deep into someone, for their wound to practically pour. The blood there surged, searching for the nearest exit out of the body, it would spray and splatter greatly. He felt that maybe he deserved that, but was not equipped to cause such a mess.
He was lucky not to contract an infection, for he had never before cleaned the blades, nor had he bandaged any cuts made. He would wash over them in the shower, careful with soap and water, but never antiseptics. Antiseptics were for serious things; deep burns, chronic wounds, animal bites, what he had done didn’t call for such a thing. Infections were certainly serious too, but this—what he had done—wasn’t serious. Though this also wasn’t normal, no normal boy cut into themself, hoping it would fix whatever was wrong with their brain.
This was just—a hobby, something he did when he had nothing else to do. He felt there was no reason for what he did, but that he was deserving of it. Afterwards, he would be completely bedridden with guilt. Laying bleaky, glued to his cotton coffin, his stomach would churn and his throat would ache with the rooted feeling.
Here he sits—feet gone numb from his sitting, and spine aching from his horrid posture, curled over himself to stare into gaping skin and blood. He could be out, doing something useful right now. He doesn’t want to be outside, but he could force himself. Preferring to keep inside has left him morbidly curious at how much blood something like himself could lose from just one cut.
He wishes that he could cut through with minimal pain, to reach the deepest layers of his body. To slice through, tussle with muscle and touch bone—saw against the grain of veins and grip tightly his tendons. The blood that would spill from such a horrendous thing is an imaginatively sickening amount. Yet he can’t help but smile and sigh at the prospect of even attempting to amputate his arteries.
It sends a shiver through himself, rolling under his skin. He feels repulsed by his own thoughts, in a way that leaves his hands quivering while his throat struggles to keep his breakfast in himself. He doesn’t need to vomit, his stomach just turned like when he’d jump from a high dive down—maybe he was giddy.
He sends, from above, his blade. Not a dagger or a carving knife, but a razor. Also not the kind found in sharpeners nor craft knives, but the stereotypical, single-edged, thick, blades used for old face shavers or in industrial situations. It’s easier to grip this type with his fingers, and they’re relatively cheap so buying in bulk isn’t difficult. The only downside is that they don’t stay sharp for as long as others, but he is cutting through skin with cheap shaving blades.
The next cut stings as usual, blood rising to fill in the gap and bead, overflowing. The same drawl of press, push, pull, sting, sigh, smile, then sigh again. It’s beautiful. Being able to cause so much to pool to the surface of his skin, to sit in pretty droplets and irritate him further red. To feel so much of that pure, buzzing, staticy bite only to say “one more, please—a few more, then you’re done;” just to move to his thighs with the same routine.
This time though, he decided to stop and clean himself up, already tired from the late hour. He was used to staying up, craning over crowded machinery strewn across his desk or carrying out missions for Father. Today, he felt, was so tiresome that the only energy he had left was spent chiseling away at skin.
He stood to grab a stray rag from atop his desk, likely already stained with something gross. Scurried across the hallway in the dark, hoping nobody was around, he twisted the doorknob as he shut the door. The valve squeaked as he turned it, cold water running over his hands—saturating the cloth. He rung the water out and the faucet cried again as he shut off the water.
The cold against his skin had him flinching; though the rubbing against fresher cuts was irritating, the cold was probably worse. Water dripped from the rag and ambled its way down his arm. The blood wasn’t easily sucked away, already having dried, it basely rehydrated and flaked softly. Pulling the rag away, it was run under the tap again, rung out, and brought back to his room to be left hanging on his bedpost.
Goodnight, he sighed to the moon, casting its glow upon the brick and such outside his window. Goodnight, the moon mellowed back, peering down to trace its rays over the world.