Why not?
That's how things had started – with the question 'why not?'
Because, honestly, Martin didn't have an answer – there was no reason why he shouldn't, or no reason that he could see anyway.
No-one would care; no-one would even notice because there was no-one to notice.
And so that's how it began.
At first it was just bruises or marks: poking himself with a paperclip or a sharp pencil, even using his nails if they were long. The physical pain made everything else go away; the hurting, the loneliness.
But bruises fade, and soon he reached a point where marks were not enough. Martin was tempted by knives and scissors and all things sharp for weeks on end. He managed to resist until he failed his CPL for the sixth time, then he gave into the impulse.
He took a kitchen knife and drew it gently across the skin of his forearm. The cut was only shallow, but it drew blood. And it hurt, hurt like hell.
But Martin smiled through the pain, because he needed this. Needed to dull his feelings of hopelessness and worthlessness until they were nothing more than a speck in the back of his mind. Needed to punish himself for being such a failure, for causing people trouble, for being so useless and stupid. It was the lowest point of his life, and Martin honestly hated himself.
There were moments when he wanted to die, but in his typical way of blaming himself for everything, Martin didn't want to cause his family any inconvenience by committing suicide or even dying accidently. So he simply cut himself more, a little deeper, and wished he had never existed in the first place
Martin knew his brother and sister cared for him, but no more so than they were obliged to, and he saw the pity in their eyes when he spoke to them. He knew they didn't understand, and didn't want to understand, the psyche of their failed brother who had delusions of being a pilot. So he cut himself even more, his emotions slowly ripping him to pieces and destroying him.
He always made sure to bandage the cuts and disinfect them, but this became more difficult when he began using his left hand to make cuts on his right arm. He knew that it would be stupid to damage the skin on his left arm to a point where it wouldn't repair, so he switched arms. As a result, the cuts became more jagged, healed slower and left bigger scars.
Thus, by the time he was employed by MJN, Martin's arms were covered in scars. He'd lost count of how many cuts he'd made, and wasn't sure that it could be counted simply by counting the scars. But the scars were faint, so no-one noticed, or they declined to say anything if they did notice.
Martin was cutting himself a little less frequently at this point, though he would do it after a particularly bad flight, or a week where money was so tight he couldn't actually buy food.
The feelings still came back to haunt him though: feelings of utter uselessness and purposeless. He considered it a fact that he was worthless, and always to blame for things that went wrong. He didn't bear Douglas and Carolyn's insults as well as he pretended: their words would haunt him for days after. Martin's attempt at pride and self-assurance in front of other people was only a poor attempt to cover up his genuine belief that he deserved nothing from the world, and consequently expected nothing.
But when Douglas noticed the scars, and the proud/nervous personality Martin hid behind, and the occasions when Martin had a bandage or a plaster on his arm, he said nothing; only stored up the information in his head, reached the correct conclusions, and determined to act upon it later.
It was with nervous surprise and relief that Martin moved into Douglas's house later that year. Technically he was a 'lodger', but they both knew he was more than that, and that Douglas rather considered them to be housemates, which would set them on an equal standing with one another.
Neither of them were entirely sure who'd suggested that they should house-share (and, effectively, life-share), but it was a decision that was reached after Douglas told Martin, in a round-about way, that he knew of Martin's problem, didn't judge him and still thought of him as a friend (something it had taken courage to say).
Thought it took time, Martin began to cut himself less and less, and eventually Douglas learned the signals that showed when he wanted to, so he was able to avert any disaster by distracting Martin or, if the situation was desperate, simply remove all sharp objects from his reach. In turn, Martin began to recognise when Douglas became upset and brooding, a state that would always leave him vulnerable to the temptation of alcohol.
Nothing was perfect, because life isn't, and when things went wrong Martin blamed himself and Douglas teased him about it, until Martin's expression told him to leave it be. The feelings of worthlessness and uselessness where still there, a faint buzz in the background, but Martin rarely ever paid attention to them anymore.