Lucifer's Symphony
He felt wasted. Used up. Spit out. Sometimes it didn't feel like this, he thought vaguely, sometimes it just felt empty. Sometimes it felt like nothing at all. But it was moments like this one when he needed it the most. There was an itch that needed to be scratched and goddamn if he wasn't going to scratch it.
The bathroom door shut behind him and the click of the lock was both an essential sound and the start of a familiar song flowing out of his hands, fumbling over to the drawer in the wooden cabinet of the sink. It took a bit of frantic searching, but when he finally found his instrument he almost quaked with anticipation. He ripped off his shirt, lifting his arms and marking the introduction of the symphony. His pants came off next, ripped deftly down to his knees and the kid in the bathroom mirror held his breath, the only audience to that night's performance. Silently the scissors opened, a blade glistening against his palm, and with an equally silent breath the first notes of the song began; point the blade up-ways at the top of the hip, angry swipes at first, a 130 tempo in cut time. The piece slowed, the onlooker gazing into the wounds of melody, blood peeping out gingerly at first and then furiously screaming harmony down pale double bar lines like liquid relaxation. He lowered the blade to his thigh, just below where the blood began to pool and then the instrument sang again, a dwindling song of consequences and feelings that decrescendo-d into the shallow scratches that would sting for days but wouldn't need cleaning. The audience looked up heavily as the musician replaced his instrument and closed the drawer, each trying to ignore the shivering that began in his hands and worked its way up to his shoulders. Shock was a marcato, brain addled shivers accenting the tenuto regret. He scrabbled towards the second drawer, in search of the rubbing alcohol to diminish the music and the bindings to bring the conductor's baton down on the whole routine.
With still shaking hands the boy dressed his wounds as properly as he could, flushing bloody rags down the toilet. His boxers and pants went on tentatively. He lifted the shirt over his head and sunk into a huddle against the pale gray of the tub. Outside he could make out his brother's chatter, and looking up he noticed that the kid in the mirror didn't even have it in himself to cry. He felt wasted. Used up. Spit out. At least, he thought, it didn't always feel like this.