The click of a door echoes through the tiny space. A pristinely white sink glistens under fluorescent lighting. The constant drip drip drip of a leaky faucet keeps the silence from being overbearing. A medicine cabinet is opened, a small box pulled out by a pale hand. Too short nails open the lid in a flash, desperate to feel the cool metal of the instrument inside. No razors, no scissors, no. I'm not depressed. I'm not.
Tweezers. A simple set of metallic tweezers are gently pulled from their slot next to the nail-clippers. Blue blue blue eyes stare into the mirror, and a shaking hand is brought up too too close. Open. Close. A simple movement, and yet somehow creates tremors of excitement through their owner's body. A shaking pinky finger is brought to a pair of pale pink lips, and in a swift bite the nail is once more a stub, and bleeding. But this is good. The tingling has stopped. And oh, how nice it feels. How nice.
The lips part once more and emit a small tsk. Blue eyes are widened, a soft index finger trails lightly over the upper and lower lids.
Stubs. That's all that's left. Like the grizzled remainders of a five-o-clock shadow on a middle-aged man's face. Tweezers are raised, placed inside the lid, as close to the nearest stub as possible. Tingling spreads through the nerves as the object clamps down like a vice.
"Your eyes… are probably my favorite physical feature, Rox. Why do you ask?"
Tug. Liar.
Swiftly now. That pleasure mixed with pain will only last so long.
Clamp. Tug.
"Hey Rox, what's up with the bandages? Get your fingers smashed in a door or something?"
Clamp. Shut up.
Tug. There they go, falling lifelessly to the ground. Black specks litter the once pure white linoleum. But the tingling is still there. It's moving. The tingling spreads like wild fire down smooth smooth cheeks. Don't let it get away Roxas! Follow. Scratch.
"Seriously, what's going on? You're worrying me, man."
You liar. You have no idea. If only you'd open your eyes for once. Scratch. The skin burns. Blunt fingernails leave hot trails of pain over soft flesh. But the tingling won't stop. It's heading towards your arms Roxas. Scratch scratch SCRATCH.
"Hey, check out this article I found in the paper. 'Trichotillomania, or the obsessive pulling of hair, is an ocd that often goes hand in hand with onycophagia (nail biting) and dermotillomania (skin picking.)' Ugh, that's so disgusting."
Why are you staring at me like that? Like I've grown another head? You don't know; you don't get it. You're perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"Roxas, I think you need help."
What did I ever do? I never wanted your help, never asked for it. Clamp. Tug. Scratch. Tear.
"Roxas, I want to help you."
Why?
"I love you."
LIAR.
Sob. Clamp. Pull. A small body sinks to the ground, the tweezers slipping from shaking hands. They clatter to the floor, leaving only the drip of a leaky faucet and the sobs of Roxas to rebound off the walls.
Axel. Why won't you just leave it alone?