Oliver examined his scarred body in the mirror. Perfectly sculpted. Powerful, fast. A weapon. He felt no pride over it, despite the long hours that he put into training; it was just necessary. And yet here, in the city, it was not enough.
Some days he felt the weight of the responsibility he had taken upon himself: to be a vigilante, to be a working citizen, to be a brother and a son. No human could balance that kind of life and get it all right, and yet Oliver felt like he should be able to. He had been through so much… why could he not make his mother and sister happy? Why was it so easy to fight and to deal with pain, and yet so hard to be part of a family? He dug his fingernails into a scar in the dip below his left collarbone.
And he craved a partner… someone he could talk to. Someone to love him for everything he was: Arrow. Not just Oliver Queen. He almost laughed at himself, and a small twisted smile did make it to his lips. Fool. He dragged his fingernails downwards from the scar he was still pressing into, scratching his skin all the way down his stomach, leaving angry red streaks that he knew would fade to nothing overnight. He unbuckled his trousers and dropped them, pulling his boxers off with them. Avoiding looking at his legs in the mirror, he crossed the room to his dresser with the same kind of calm indifference that he used when about to hurt someone else. Knife in hand, he moved into the tiled wet-room that he had as a bathroom, and sunk to the floor to lean against the cold wall.
He paused for just a moment, just remembering, and then took the blade to his flesh.