A/N: Writing this as a vent and coping piece using some plot shit that I've been going through recently. Using these two dorks as my mains bc I love them and somehow I ended up being septiplier trash oops.
Warnings: Dark themes, explicit self-harm scenes, depression, anxiety, drug use, dissociation, eating disorders.
Please enjoy my first septiplier fic, and comment. It helps to keep me going.
Chapter 1: One of Those Days
Jack had just finished clicking the publish button for one of his newest video, and he sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He really hadn't been feeling it lately, and he was sure that it was going to show in this video. He was absolutely positive that he was going to be rolling in the worry comments soon enough.
Idly, he clicked over to tumblr to answer some asks. His inbox was flooded, and he wanted to try and answer at least a few. It was a lot easier to fake things through text and type versus in a recording of him.
The first ask was just a nice, positive comment of: Hey Jack! Hope ur havin a great day! We all love u, so keep doin what ur doing :3.
With a small smile, Jack typed out a quick reply, using a lot of exclamation points and a smiley face to keep up his front.
The next item in his inbox was a hate comment.
He was used to these, sure, he had even made a reading your comments video responding to some of the hate he received. He really played it off in the video though, brushing off the mean comments like everyone expected him to. Except it was much harder than he made it seem.
ur such a stupid piece of shit y dont u go ahead and kill urself already u fuckign fag
Jack's grip on his mouse tightened.
It was comments like these that made him pause for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control and keep his heart from pounding out of his chest.
He let out a particularly ragged breath, and just listening to the pathetic noises he made was enough for him to lose it. The tears came out rapidly, streaming down his face in thick, salty waves. Jack began to tremble, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them, he buried his head on his knees. A violent sob wracked his small frame, and Jack just sat there and let it happen.
It wasn't often that this type of thing did happen, but when it hit, it hit hard. Jack would usually let these types of things build up until he broke down, which was happening now.
His breathing picked up. Jack was breathing so hard, so loud. The empty room was filled with his sounds of bitter anguish, and it was only amplified by the bare, empty walls surrounding him. He squeezed his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but to no avail. His entire face was wet, and he could feel the wetness accumulate on his sweatpants. He choked on his breath, finding he couldn't take it anymore.
He leapt from his chair, stumbling towards his bedroom, leaving his chair twirling sporadically behind him. Jack slammed the door open, snatching his wallet off his bedside table as he dug through it.
Sure, his wallet was an odd place to keep it, but at least he almost always had it on him. It was a dark comfort to him, knowing that if the pressure ever built up too much in the moment, he had a release on him.
This was one of those moments.
His fingers found purchase on the small, metal object, and his gut was filled with a sense of nervous anticipation. He pulled the razor blade out of his wallet, holding it in his shaking palm for a second, unsure if he was actually going to go through with it.
Filled with a sudden determination, Jack dropped his wallet and proceeded to the bathroom.
In there, he shut and locked the door behind him. He lived by himself, but his paranoia always managed to make him do unnecessary things. Once he was sure he was completely alone, just him and the sound of his pitiful sobbing echoing off the tiled walls, Jack shed his clothes. He stripped down to his boxer briefs, haphazardly throwing his shirt and sweatpants in a pile by the door.
He propped one leg up on the tub's edge, pulling up the ends of his briefs, revealing a myriad of scars. Some were old, nothing but faded white lines, others a darker, angry red, and some of the fresher ones, scabbed over, still healing.
Through his tears, Jack lined up the edge of the blade to a spot mostly covered by the older white lines. He turned his head away as he swiped the blade across his thigh. No matter how many times he did it, he could never stand to watch as he mutilated his body. His thigh erupted in a brief, fiery pain, which dulled as the scarlet liquid oozed out of the wound.
Jack let out another sob. He was turning to this again. He promised himself he wouldn't, but deep down he knew that he wouldn't be able to stay clean.
Rearing himself up again, Jack slid the razor against his leg again, this time repeating the motion several times in quick succession. Jack cried out momentarily from the pain, but settled down as he saw the blood. It flowed steadily, carving a path down his hairy chicken legs. Jack had to stick his leg in the tub to prevent bleeding everywhere as little droplets spotted the porcelain edge.
Seven.
That's how many he ended up doing.
By now, Jack had settled down enough to breathe normally again. His eyes were still moist as he watched with rapt attention as the blood made bright red streaks down his leg.
After a while of watching the blood and counting his heartbeat, Jack set the razor down on the shelf and grabbed some toilet paper. He had read somewhere online that using toilet paper to clean up cuts wasn't good, since the fibers peel off easily and stick to the wound, but at the moment Jack really didn't give a fuck.
He didn't care that he had given in to temptation yet again, scarring and mutilating his body even further. He just didn't care.
Gripping a bundle of toilet paper, Jack began wiping away the blood. It smeared, the excessive amount making it more than a little difficult to clean. The blood flowed from the cuts as quickly as he wiped it away, and with a huff of irritation Jack realized that he wasn't getting anywhere with this method of cleaning.
He dropped the reddened tissue paper into the toilet, and carefully removed his briefs as he stepped into the shower. The bottom of the tub was speckled with the scarlet liquid, and Jack braced himself on the tile wall as he lost his footing. Turning on the tap, Jack let the freezing water pierce his skin. He jumped at the icy contact, relaxing again as the water began to heat up. His blood mixed with the water, muddying it thoroughly before disappearing down the drain.
Jack heaved a sigh of relief. The warmth of the water cascading across his pale skin came as a comfort, and Jack smiled numbly. The water stung as it splashed into his cuts, and Jack let out a humorless laugh. Somehow, this kind of event was becoming a normal occurrence.
He rubbed across his cuts, the red liquid gathering on his palm and looking almost pink under the flourescent lights. The sharp smell of iron assaulted his senses, and Jack almost gagged. Scrunching his nose, Jack began to wipe away the blood earnestly, trying to get it off. More drops fell from his leg, joining the reddened water at his feet before it swirled away and down the drain.
Jack thought briefly of his fans, and how much he would be letting them down should they know of what he does behind closed doors.
But just couldn't do it sometimes.
Sometimes everything just became too much. A particular hate comment or other upsetting event would trigger the waterworks, and Jack would have to cut to find relief, to find some sense of being. He couldn't process his emotions properly, so instead he expressed them through adding new lines to his skin.
He absolutely couldn't let anyone know.
He had too many fans, and too many close friends at this point. He couldn't disappoint them. He couldn't let them know that the loud, energetic, upbeat Jack that they all knew and loved was nothing but a front, hiding his raw pain and desperation. He was scared. Terrified, even. No matter what, Jack couldn't burden them with his problems. He was getting medicine. He would be fine. He would make it through this, and be the Jack that everyone knew.
A familiar, melodic ringing cut through Jack's thoughts, startling him as he looked around wildly.
It was the sound of a Skype call.
Someone was calling him.
Jack scrambled for the tap, switching it off, and hopped out of the tub. He snatched up a black towel –the black perfect for hiding stains– and wrapped it around his waist. He gave himself a careful pat down, holding the dark cloth to his left thigh where he knew he was still bleeding. Jack then grabbed another towel, drying off his upper body before throwing on his longsleeved shirt from earlier.
The ring from his computer in the other room ceased abruptly, and Jack stilled.
He wasn't sure why he was rushing to get to the call. Frowning slightly, Jack unlocked the door and limped slowly to his recording room. Sitting back down in his swivel chair, Jack was mindful of the towel still concealing his lower half, and more importantly, his cuts.
Just as Jack was clicking on his Skype icon, the ringing started up again.
It was Mark.
In no way do I condone the act of self harm. I'm merely writing this using SOME of my own experiences. If you're in a similar situation, please reach out for help. It is hard, I know. Just be careful who you reach out to. If you know that parents/teachers/adults can't get you the help you need, even talking to a friend can make a big difference.
I'm always willing to talk if you need it. Send me a PM if you want. Please contact me if you are in a bad place. I can be here for you.
Stay safe, lovlies.
