A Q-tip dragged slowly down pale flesh and left a trail of antiseptic liquid it had been dipped in a few moments previously. The Q-tip drew a perfect straight line downwards, before slowly dragging upwards once more. Careful. Slow. Meticulous.
Roxas slowly dragged the Q-tip down his wrist once more, blue eyes staring down at the damp cotton with impeccable intensity as it re-drew that line down his left wrist once more.
His exact-o-knife glinted at his side. More or less shaped like a pen with a little blade on the end. Sharp.
He was in his room, which was quite brightly lit; the overhead light on, as well as the lamp in the corner. Light was everywhere. It wasn't gloomy in the slightest. The radio played beside the lamp- some sort of pop song, but Roxas really didn't notice as he picked up the exact-o-knive and dipped the blade carefully in the bottle of antiseptic liquid.
Muffled shouts sounded from the other end of the house behind Roxas' bedroom door and his blue eyes never removed themselves from watching the tanned liquid dripping from the blade in his hand and back into the bottle under it.
They were arguing again. His parents were. They did it often.
With a delicate little flick of his exact-o-knife, the last few drops of excess liquid flew from the blade and left it more or less dry. Shifting a little against his bed again, Roxas crossed his legs and balanced the knife delicately on his knee.
Grasping a ruler now, which he dug out of his school pencil case, the blond boy pressed one of the sharp sides against his damp wrist, pressing it there for a long moment before removing it. A perfect straight indent in his flesh. Perfect.
Dragging the Q-tip once more down the damp skin, being careful to get into the indent of his flesh, Roxas had no look of sadness on his face. No anger. No depression.
Just blank concentration. Curiosity, almost. He was just... there.
Raising his hand so it was directly in front of his face, Roxas stared down at his damp wrist. The perfect vertical indent was slowly fading away. He pressed the tip of the blade onto the crease just under the heel of his hand, and slowly dragged it down.
Tingles. That's all he felt. Down his elbow, really. And the tips of his fingers.
Millimetre by millimetre, the blade was dragged, large blue eyes watching the descent. Roxas watched as the blade cut through those tiny wrinkles in his skin, through merely two or three layers of skin. He wasn't bleeding. It wasn't deep enough. He just stared and watched, less than a hand's width between him and the cut he was creating.
He finally stopped the blade, staring down at the perfect vertical cut in his wrist, the damp flesh glinting a little in the bright lighting of the room. Blue eyes slide closed before opening again, and a frown melted onto Roxas' blank face.
The line isn't perfectly straight. He'd slid off the perfect straight indent a little in the middle. It would look straight to anyone else, but he knew it wasn't. Wasn't straight. Wasn't perfect.
Placing the blade against his wrist once more, he pressed it against the miniscule cut he had created, and dragged it downward, millimetre by millimetre, watching as the perfect blade cut through the minute wrinkles and imperfections in his skin.
He just did that. Again and again.
Just cutting through two or three layers of skin at a time, perfectly poised, perfectly emotionless. He made no sound as he felt tingles down to his elbow and tingles in his fingertips. He felt nothing in his wrist as he cut it.
He was numb.
And that is why he was cutting.
There was a scream from the other side of the bedroom door, and a loud crashing sound. Roxas did nothing but watched silently as tiny beads of blood welled up from the perfect cut in his wrist. It was barely deep enough to see the difference in skin, and barely deep enough to let any of the blade disappear into it, but, that was the way he liked it.
A few tiny beads of blood welled up at either end of the cut, but nothing came from the middle of it; the perfect redness against his pale skin striking, but not completely lining the shallow wound.
Using the tip of the exact-o-knife, Roxas slipped it into the cut and picked at the skin in the middle of the cut emotionlessly. From the sound the blade was making, and the way it felt, it was almost like he was picking at threads in a piece of clothing. Tiny, tiny threads that he was cutting with the tip of the blade.
Redness clung to the tip of the blade and the boy's smile, which had melted away like the ghost it was like, appeared once more, as he lifted the blade away and the cut on his wrist was perfectly red. From one end, to the other. It was like he'd drawn it on with a red pen, but it was more beautiful.
Balancing the blade against his knee once more, Roxas rose the Q-tip to his wrist and dragged it's dampness across his bleeding, shallow wound. The blood seeped into his skin again and he watched as it outlined every wrinkle surrounding the cut in a perfect redness, and melted into the tan disinfectant clinging to his skin.
Roxas smiled and placed the blade to his skin again.
He wasn't depressed.
He wasn't suicidal.
He was just numb.
((END. Just something I wanted to write to explain how I felt sometimes! Rather rambly, sorry about that. Enjoy!))