Hershel had been terrified, once, of the feeling, the longing, of bringing that razor to his arms.
Now, it was a comfort, a need.
He made sure to hide them, both scars and recent cuts alike, from his parents, his friends. They would ask why.
In all honesty, he couldn't quite understand why, himself. He just needed it. The static, the ringing and screaming in his mind, the intrusive thoughts… they only went away when he managed to make another red line on his body. They were calmed by it. He was calmed by it, when nothing else would help.
Then Randall began talking to him more and more; the thoughts went quiet. The thoughts only went quiet when Randall talked to him. Hershel craved those moments, he needed those moments. Then, the urge of bringing that damned blade to his body would be sated, if only until Randall left. His body itched. He needed to get rid of the itch on his arms, his legs.
When Randall invited him to stay the night, at first, Hershel agreed. But sitting in the darkened room, with Randall snoring next to him, he felt the familiar itch creeping up his body, his mind screaming at him. He crawled out from under the covers, careful not to disturb his friend, as he reached in his bag and shuffled quietly through the contents until he found the familiar handle. The comforting, soothing handle. He pulled it out, holding it close to his chest when he stood up, making his way to the bedroom door and slipping out.
He'd been over enough to know where the bathroom was; he found his way down the darkened hallway with ease, closing the door before flicking on the light.
He stared at himself in the mirror, eyes sagging from the sleep his body so desperately wanted. He rolled up a sleeve, gazing at his scarred arm before flicking open the blade. He pressed it to his arm, the skin taut against the metal when the door opened slightly. Randall's tired face appeared, looking at Hershel through the mirror.
"Hershel --" The boy jumped, the blade cutting into him and leaving a jagged, unclean cut. He gasped, the blade clattering to the floor as he gripped his arm. Randall blinked several times, most likely blinking away sleep, before his eyes widened. They stared at each other in the mirror for a long moment before Randall pushed open the door. Hershel felt sick. Randall knew, his best friend knew. Blood trickled down his arm and plopped onto the floor.
"Hershel, I --" He bit his lip. "How can I help?" Hershel backed away when Randall stepped towards him, tears streaming down his face.
"I'm sorry, I thought you were asleep --" The bottom of Hershel's legs bumped into the bathtub. He was cornered. "Please, don't be upset, I --"
"I'm not upset, Hershel. Relax."
"I -- this helps me, I-I -- this relaxes me." Randall bit his lip again, harder.
"I can understand that." Hershel's terror was replaced by confusion when Randall stepped forward again. "Can -- I see?" Hershel whimpered, bringing his newly wounded arm closer to his body. "I won't tell, I promise." His voice was hushed. "If you want to go home, you can. I understand how difficult this subject is." Hershel nodded, hesitated for a moment longer, then finally held out his arm. Randall gave a small smile, then reached and grabbed Hershel's arm, inspecting it. "I'm sorry I scared you. It probably hurts, doesn't it?" Hershel thought for a long moment.
"No. Everything… is numb."
"Ah." Randall stared at Hershel's arm. "It looks like it hurts." The thoughts and screaming voices in his head had gone quiet. His ears rang. His arm responded with a dull throb. He couldn't help the wince that left him as Randall probed the cut lightly.
"Let's get this cleaned up, and then I can have Henry escort you home, or I could escort you --"
"Ma would be concerned if I came home this late."
"I can tell her something." Randall smiled. "I promise, she won't find out until you want to tell her. I can help you until you're ready." Hershel exhaled.
"I --" He bit his lip. "I'd rather tell her sooner, while I -- still have the courage to." Randall nodded. "Will you -- I mean, can you --"
"Of course. I'll be there with you."
Of course, once they got to Hershel's home, he couldn't find it in him to worry his mother, who was still awake, knitting to the warm glow of the fire and soft lamplight. But he would tell her eventually.
He just didn't know when.