He did it again. He stared at himself and his various bruises painting his skin in the form of hideous blotches, as if he was the canvas and his many contusions were the paint. He traced the dozens of scars lining his slender legs, remembering how he got each and every one. Pitiful. He sickened himself; he sickened his own family. Durable rope looped around his arm, he held a bottle of bleach in one hand and a knife in the other.
Retreating to his residence in the attic, he stopped in front of the chair. It was time; he decided. After all, pleasure is pain- sweet, beautiful pain. He admitted it- he had a problem, a rather strange addiction. He had debated getting help for the longest time, but realized that it was far too late. After all, what point was there to stop now? His own best friend hated him. His school hated him- hell, even his own family cursed him with their last dying breath. Sure, he still had his sister, but she was disgusted with how he was as a person.
His one light in the darkness had sputtered out so quickly. How long had he cried for his own pathetic excuse for a life? Sorrow was painful; he wished not to dwell on that awful feeling. Haunted by the blood he could never clean from his hands, a hellish desire welled up from deep within him a long time ago. Pleasure is pain; pain is pleasure. The phrase was forever etched into his brain, similar to how people never forget simple things, such as breathing.
Looking around at his surroundings, he took a final glance at this dump he had chosen to call a home. A small square space, full of cobwebs, rats, and a strong musty odor, completed with a broken box-spring bed now infested with surely disease-ridden vermin and a lone unstable wooden dining chair sitting ominously there; most likely a home of termites, teasing him to be used for his latest idea.
His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, probably because he hadn't eaten in the last two days. He didn't have to worry about eating right now since it was spring break, meaning no lunch ladies could force him to choke down the offending staples of life. Of course, they never knew of his secret- nobody did. Nobody knew that he had stooped to this level, or anywhere near this point for that matter. No one ever suspects the seemingly perfect blonde boy with straight A's, not to mention the added effect of him signing up for the student council to look even more fabulous to college entries he'd never submit.
He frowned slightly at the odor of dried blood that caked the never-washed sheets of his so-called sleeping quarters, added on to the odor of his own mouth. Vomit. I choose to keep my stomach empty because it keeps my mind off of the depressing thoughts of life and on the aching in my abdomen, he thought, sometimes.
He stripped off all of his clothes, leaving them in a puddle of filth on his already dirty floor, allowing him to revel at his body. At first glance, you could say he was beautiful, just slightly lanky compared to most guys. After all, he was the studious type. That wasn't the case- it only appeared that way because he kept his "artwork" hidden at school. Nobody questioned why he never wore shorts, sandals, or anything without long sleeves. They all thought it was just his style.
Ugly bags took up space under his eyes due to the countless sleepless nights. He was about ready to collapse from exhaustion. Perfect. He finally began his preparation, willing his sluggish body to move according to the orders of his hyper-active brain. He took the rope and hung it in a noose above the chair. He made sure it wouldn't come undone, considering he didn't want to laugh at himself if it would fail had he not taken the extra precaution.
He sat on the chair, ignoring the agonizing pain already searing through his body from the welts and all the other goodies that coated his figure. Taking the bleach bottle and sitting it next to him, he proceeded to cut open all his old wounds, namely his wrists, with the already bloody knife from his last use.
Bump. Bump. Bump. He watched in awe at the blood trickling slowly out of the small cuts he made, using this prep time to think about why he was going this far. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. His heartbeat pounded against his sore ribcage mercilessly. Is it just his imagination, or is it already slowing? Staring up above his head at the rope, he recalled the very reason he had resorted to this addiction.
A little boy with black hair and grey eyes loomed over another little boy with blonde hair and matching gold eyes. He sighed and began patching the blonde boy's knee, which had gotten scraped on the cement earlier when they had played a game of basketball. "Be more careful, Nattie." said the boy as he placed some Neosporin on the small scrape and bandaged it with a skull Band-Aid. Concern flashed in his stormy grey eyes as he eyed Nathaniel for any more injuries he might've missed at first glance. "I'm fine, Cassie." Nathaniel pouted, swatting his hand away, a little tint of a blush on his puffy cheeks. "More importantly Cassie, how did you know what to do for a scrape? Why do you even have that stuff?" Nathaniel cocked his head to the side, staring at his best friend questioningly, yet if you looked closer, you could see the look of admiration in the blonde boy's eyes. Castiel smiled sheepishly at him and put his medical stuff back into his pockets. "I want to be a doctor someday." he said simply, his face turning into a mask of emotionlessness that all the other kids were used to seeing. "Nurse Cassie!" giggled Nathaniel, his young eyes sparkling in gratitude and something unbelievably close to worship as he went off to chase his younger sister around the playground, reaching out with a devious smirk for the doll he knew she treasured.
As time went on, Nathaniel seemed to get small little injuries a lot. Every single time, "Nurse Cassie" would patch him up. Castiel was happy to do it, since for one, Nathaniel was his best friend, and for two, it gave him plenty of opportunities to practice tending to future patients. One time, Nathaniel had even gotten a broken arm, shortly after he had given his friend some medical books on how to treat broken bones, to which Castiel had eagerly read and fixed Nathaniel up, to not only the amazement of the school nurse, but much more to the professionals at the hospital who had tried to take Nathaniel in, only to find there was nothing wrong with Castiel's work, almost as if an actual doctor had done it themself. Castiel was pleased with himself, which brought a gigantic smile to Nathaniel's 10 year-old face as his arm rested in a sling that Castiel had prepared. It was a weird coincidence to everyone who saw Nathaniel carrying medical books down the hallways of the school, and to boot, end up breaking his arm with no real reason or excuse as to why it was broken the next day. When asked, he merely shrugged and said "I don't know."
Nathaniel cowered in fetal position in the corner of the lockers, tears streaming down his face, mixing in with the blood that streamed down from his nose. A 12-year old Castiel stood in front of him, shielding him from 5 other boys, angrily barking out a stream of threats filled with cuss words at the group. Not that Nathaniel really knew what he was saying as his head was swimming with shock and pain at what he had witnessed.
"Nathaniel, you're such a fag. You can't even stand up for yourself. All you do is whine and cower behind Castiel. So gay! I bet you even purposely hurt yourself to get attention from Castiel!"
Nathaniel felt numb. Was it true? It made so much sense now. All those times he never knew why or how he had gotten hurt, he would always run to Castiel, who fixed him up gladly. Nathaniel never cared that he had gotten hurt, he only cared that he got babied by his best friend. His own best friend was the object of all his dreams and "frustrations" as puberty specialists liked to put it. He dreamed of Castiel being his in that way, waking up to soiled sheets and sweat. He never thought twice about his numerous questions that plagued his mind about him. 'I wonder how his lips taste.' 'I wonder if he thinks about me too?' were the two main ones he thought of now. He blushed, realizing every word of what the bullies were saying was true. So he really did like Castiel that way- and not just like. He LOVED him. 'Disgusting. I'm so horrible. It's obvious that Castiel doesn't swing that way. I'm just making trouble for him.'
Nathaniel got up and wiped the leftover blood from his nosebleed on his sleeve and trudged over to Castiel, who was now shouting at the top of his lungs at the retreating figures that ran away in fear from him. Castiel turned to him, huffing and looking concerned. "You okay? Those guys were jerks. It's totally not true, and they know it. Don't let it get to you." Nathaniel hung his head and stared with a new interest at the floor. "...I'm fine. You're right." he mumbled, pushing past Castiel, his heart breaking into a million pieces at the truth spelled out for him. 'It's true. Castiel doesn't like me that way. I didn't even know I was holding a pathetic little hope that he actually did like me back.'
Wordlessly, Nathaniel continued the rest of the day. That was the first day he hurt himself to get rid of emotional pain.
Of course, it only got worse as time progressed. Simple things like stubbing of the toe or small bruises by 'accidental' brushing of walls didn't help anymore. He was hopelessly falling further and further in love, and it hurt. A lot. It hurt so much to know he'd never be loved back by Castiel, just like he'd never be loved back by his family.
He had gotten to the point where he would ache more without the physical pain more so than with it. Using his meager allowance and meals, he had gotten 'help' from others, letting them beat him, to which they'd look revolted as he had done some weird mixture of moans and cries of sorrow. With every hit, he wished childishly that Castiel would realize his pain and be his prince in shining armor that would save the despairing 'princess'. Sadly, he knew that day would never come.
He even got his own father to hit him a few times, but it wasn't his fists. It was his words. Nathaniel would let himself wallow in the darkness of sin that was now his soul, crying what he called tears of pleasure at the stinging thorns that were his father's words. Voices without owners echoed all around him, telling him ways he could feel more pleasure, encouraging him to do much more drastic things, which he eagerly agreed to.
Nathaniel was becoming insane, and he had nobody to turn to. His only light left in his world of darkness was his best friend, and he was perfectly fine with that. He could keep the demons at bay for him and make Nathaniel believe that his life was worth living, even when he had no idea that Nathaniel's life was slowly growing more dangerous as the days dragged on, bringing him closer and closer to the edge, just barely escaping as he clung desperately to Castiel's light, like a moth to a flame.
He lost his light, his warmth. The only hope he had left- gone, just like that. All because of that stupid girl. Deborah. She was the very definition of evil itself, and was planning on hurting Castiel. HIS Castiel. He hated her so much. But even more than he hated her, he hated himself for letting her use him in her plan to make herself look like a saint, losing his first kiss to that witch as well as the one thing that kept him in this god-forsaken place.
Castiel hated him. 'He'll never forgive me and I didn't even do anything. Hell, everybody hates me now. Oh Castiel, why? Why can't you see that I love you? Why don't you love me?' Nathaniel sobbed, deepening the cuts on his wrists, letting the blood flow like a shower from them. 'I won't even be missed. I've made my decision.' He shakily stood next to the chair and mentally prepared himself the best he could. He bent down and grabbed the bleach bottle, taking a little swig from it, painfully enjoying the stinging sensation. He watched his blood pour out more frequently to match the rapid beating of his aching heart.
Bump. Bump. Bump. Nathaniel painted out his feelings in three simple words on the floor with the most brilliant shades of red. Blood. "I love you." he whispered hoarsely to nobody in particular; it's not like they would hear him or see this message. He soon found himself to be mute, no matter how much he wanted to scream out his frustrations. He watched the blood spatter on the ground absently before grabbing the bleach bottle once more and standing up straight on the chair, positioning himself in the rope's hole for his neck. Chugging the bottle down, tears poured from his eyes. Coughing up blood and whatever stomach acid was left in his empty insides, he realized he had made a mistake.
Desperately trying to call out for help, his voice would not come forth. Tears violently dripped down as he quivered, feeling darkness invading his eyelids as he dropped the empty bleach bottle. He heard the oh-so-familiar voices giggle and maniacally tell him to let go, but he felt he couldn't. He tried to yell out, anything to alert people of his situation. "CASTIEL! HELP ME!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, only to find no sound to accompany the moving of his lips.
He felt himself slipping, desperately wishing to be saved, but yet he knew that nobody would save him. He felt his legs give out from underneath him, kicking the chair away with their deadweight, causing him to be hanged. Nathaniel cried out wordlessly, clawing at the rope that was tightening around his pale neck, to no avail. The damage was already done, and unfortunately for him, was irremediable. With a deafening crack, Nathaniel's poor frail neck snapped, making it certain that the blonde boy had indeed died. No longer struggling, useless limbs fell to his sides, a sorrowful smile worn on his lips as his body was swinging ever-so-slowly from the noose that guaranteed his death, just like he wanted. Golden eyes, now dim, continued their blank stare forward, as if they'd forever be searching for their princely red-haired savior that would never come. Tear-stained cheeks eventually dried, and the smell of decaying flesh added to the depressing suicide chamber. The blood message on the floor, now dried, read- "I AM ADDICTED".
[Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this dark and depressing version of Nathaniel. *Story based off of the bruises seen in episode 12 on MCL* I do not own My Candy Love or the character Nathaniel; I only own my words.]