A little morbid, I know, but all I've been doing lately is happy-go-lucky slash, and I needed a breather, I guess.
Scars
Some scars are invisible; the little winces he makes when his sister screeches his name, the time he wakes in a cold sweat from a nightmare, the hurt look in his eyes when he hears his father's disapproving tone of voice and the times that he flinches because someone raised their hand, though it was only for a high-five. Every time he comes out of his sister's shadow, he feels as if people are staring at his scars, the scars only he can see. He tugs at his hat, lowering it to conceal his eyes so that no one can look inside of him and see those scars for themselves.
Some scars are visible; the long, white line behind his ear that still tingles sometimes reminds him to keep his head down, and his sexuality hidden. Hats are good for covering scars, but only to conceal them from the public. No matter how flashy his hat is, he can still see that scar in the mirror, hidden just underneath the sparkly cloth. He unconsciously pulls at his hat, tugging it to what he hopes is a jaunty angle to the left, covering the line completely. No one but him needs to know it's there.
Some scars fade; a friend helps him see that the scars of his past cannot stop his future from being a bright one, and he picks up a baseball bat again. The fears he has about the game, about people not accepting him for who and what he was, melt slowly into the background. He doesn't win, but they don't hate him for it. He feels loved, and the scars fade a little each time they tell him he's great.
Some scars eat away at him; the nightmare that wakes him up at two in the morning and makes him drowsy for the entire school day is just one example. The sounds that make him jumpy, like male laughter, are some of them, too. He holds these scars deep within him, because he thinks that if people see them, he will be letting them swallow him whole.
Some scars are threatening; the ones on his wrists that he makes himself are examples of this. They hurt him, burn him, mark him, and scar him; he feels almost happy to do it. It makes him feel in control. It makes him feel as if his other scars won't overpower him, because he can control which scars he has. It also scares the crap out of him, because he knows one day it could escalate, and that the small nicks could become so much worse, and he could lose himself forever. He takes the risk.
"Ryan, please stop," his sister begs, her voice barely a whisper when she catches him in the act, the tiny weapon clutched in his fingers poised above his delicate pale skin. "Please, Ryan, you have to stop this." Her eyes are shining with what he could only hope was love, her manicured nails digging into the skin of his shoulder. "You can't do this."
Her words are hollow. They mean nothing to him anymore. The scars that mark him, control him, burn him, hurt him... they are all he sees as he looks at her with lifeless eyes. Her own eyes fill with tears, her voice choking. "Ryan, please...!"
It is a scarred young man who mumbles, "Sometimes I wish I could stop, Sharpay. Sometimes I wish I could."
He has given up.