Chapter One: Tourniquet - 1/?
Christmas was approaching swiftly, serving as a painful reminder to the cause of his constant depression. A reminder of the night his life began to spiral out of control… God he had been such a fool.
A finger absently traced patterns on a slightly foggy window while glazed eyes gazed at the snowflakes floating towards the ground. It was funny how you could so suddenly be overwhelmed by memories…
I'd been a day just like today; it was the first day it began to snow. He was even sitting in the same place. That day he'd been resting on the window sill, leaning against the window and watching the snowfall.
It was a pleasant surprise when warm arms wrapped around him and swept him into a lap. He shifted slightly, nuzzling the crook of Heero's neck before sighing contentedly.
He couldn't sleep any longer after waking up in a cold sweat. It was a familiar feeling, his dreams were constantly plagued by nightmares of things he'd rather not remember at all. Heero brought up a hand to brush matted bangs out of his face, letting his chin rest atop his head. It was rare for them to have tender moments like this.
"Heero…" He trailed off, feeling a questioning look from half lidded eyes. He gathered what little courage he could muster and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, "… I-I think I love you." With those words they lapsed into a tense silence, neither of them spoke or even moved.
"… The feeling isn't mutual, I thought you understood that." He'd been expecting rejection… but that didn't make it hurt any less. The solid ground his world once rested upon was crumbling beneath his feet. All his hopes and dreams were crushed with those simple words and there was nothing he could do about it.
Heero didn't want him. Nothing could change that.
He blinked, as one would when waking up from a dream, lowering his feet to the floor. His feet padded softly across the carpet towards the dresser. Fingers ghosted over the surface of the dresser before dipping into the bottom drawer to retrieve an eyeglass case, humming the melody of the song.
He fingered the intricate design engraved on the case for a moment before popping it open and removing the blade within. The case hit the floor with a muffled thud and he staggered towards the bed. He nearly tripped over his own foot in his haste before sinking into the soft covers of his bed.
He leisurely ran his fingers along the tip of his blade; the way the blood trickled down his finger in response enthralled him. It was as if pain was the only thing he could feel now. He couldn't remember what it was like to feel content any longer. The distant memory of feeling happy had faded swiftly and at the moment it only appeared to be illusion. Life was so dreary and melancholy, every moment was part of a routine. So far the cycle hadn't been broken… wake up, shower, eat, lie in bed, eat, shower, and sleep. Repeat.
He smiled crookedly at the countless number of scars and fresh scabs forming on his forearm. This was his work of art, his masterpiece. He'd been waiting for so long to put on the finishing touches… the time was finally right. The knife was positioned beside the previous scars along the length of his arm before long.
He dragged the blade across his forearm as if in a trance. He tried not to wince at the sharp sting of the blade; he didn't think he'd ever get used to the dull ache.
He began to push the edge in deeper as he ran the knife down the length of his forearm. The blood flowed like water. He couldn't get enough of the sight; it mesmerized him, which of course explained the elaborate pattern scars running across his forearm.
It was becoming an addiction, an obsession. He loved to watch the crimson fluid trickle down his arm, feel the pain; it was a comfort to some extent. It provided an escape from the pain, the real pain; it gave him the sense of relief he needed. Without it… he basically didn't know how to survive.
He made a deep slash across his arm, intending to rid himself of the pain he endured by simply living. No matter what he did, he was forever reminded of the past. His wounds were beneath the skin… these wounds would never heal, nothing could block out his pain.
He threw his switchblade across the room in frustration. Where was the familiar sense of relief he always felt? He stared expressionlessly at the knife embedded in the wall, feeling light headed. Was this what it was like to die from the inside out…?
He lay down on his blood-stained sheets and pulled his arm closer to his body, vacantly staring at the blood flowing steadily from his wrist. The room began to tilt and his vision started to become blurry… he could only guess it was from the blood loss.
All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and never wake up.
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Duo's eyes slowly fluttered open to stare at an excessively bright ceiling of a room that was decidedly not his bedroom. He stirred uncomfortably in the embarrassingly thin gown and rearranged the crisp sheets that could only belong to a hospital. The only sound to break the silence was the steady beeping of what he could only guess was a heart monitor. It wasn't long before he began to register the dull throb of pain and immediately became aware of the bandages wrapped around his left arm.
Duo hopelessly tried to sort through his blurred, distorted memories, gripping the sheets tightly. All he could remember was the blood… so much blood…
Duo shut his eyes tightly and brought his good hand up to shield his eyes from the bright lights. He couldn't seem to rid himself of the image that apparently burned itself into his retinas. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
"Duo…?" A hauntingly familiar voice abruptly filled the room, startling him out of his thoughts. He couldn't bring himself to look at Quatre, not after what had happened. He anticipated the questions he knew Quatre wanted to ask... but he didn't know any of the answers. "Duo, are you alright?" He abruptly turned his glassy eyes on Quatre, who was leaning on the frame of the door with a worried look etched on his face.
"Do I look alright to you?" Duo asked moodily, twisting around to lie on his side with his back toward Quatre. He was probably worse off now than before. Why couldn't they just let him die?
"I'm sorry… I thought you might want to talk to someone a-after…" He could hear the tremor in Quatre's voice just before he trailed off and the shuffling of his feet as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
"After I tried to kill myself? You can say it, you know, not like it's a huge secret." Duo absently picked at a scab above the bandaging on his left arm. It was a bit painful… yet it was almost fascinating.
"Why did you do it, Duo? What's so wrong with your life that you don't want to be alive?" He continued to poke at the scab, blatantly ignoring Quatre, slowly peeling it off to reveal the tender skin beneath.
"You say this like it's any of your business." Duo was so tired of trying to keep up his façade; he no longer had the strength to hold his broken mask together. He was simply tired of trying to be what everyone wanted him to be… what everyone expected him to be. He was never one to go along with the wishes of others anyways.
"I think it is, Duo! We've been friends for years now; I think I have a right to know. Besides, you shouldn't keep this bottled up inside, it's not healthy." Duo chose to remain silent. He didn't have the strength to fight back now… he was so tired of it all. He resisted the urge to smirk at the dots of blood appearing and continued to peel the off the scab in morbid fascination.
He was halfway there.
"Duo? Are you listening to me?" He could feel the bed shift again as Quatre leaned over to see what he was doing, not that Duo really cared if Quatre knew what he was doing.
"D-Duo! What are you doing!?" Quatre made a grab for his wrist in an attempt to stop him, and with a sharp yank he accidentally ripped the entire scab off. Duo hissed in pain and turned on his back to glare at him. The skin underneath was already red; crimson beads of blood began to form above the irritated skin.
"Gee, Quatre, thanks for the help." Duo muttered sarcastically. The bed shifted again, at the sudden relief of weight as Quatre trudged off to retrieve a first-aid kit.
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So what should I do…?
Just lay next to you, as though I'm unaffected?
And who should I be, when they're judging me
As though I'm unaffected?
-- Unaffected- Hoobastank