Nine Lines

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. They belong to the good people at NBC and Warner Bros, and all that.
Spoilers: None. In fact, I hope this never ever happens.
Rating: M (strong language, but mostly for graphic self injury)
Content Warning: Self-injury is a touchy subject, hence the rating.
A/N: This is NOT a particularly HAPPY story! Ray/Neela relationship is close but not romantic friendship. AU (I think, maybe?); definitely OOC for Ray.
--In the second chapter, the reference information in the Journal is not real. I totally made it up.
--The poem things at the beginning of each section are not lyrics. I wrote 'em.
Summary: Neela catches Ray doing something that requires explanation.

Preparation

Desire for pain is overwhelming
A passionate love affair with destruction
An insatiable hunger
For all that you cannot have

His last patient was a kid who needed stitches, and one of the nurses had ripped open the sterile suture kit in preparation. Susan had seen the child earlier and suggested Ray that try the new Dermabond adhesive When he saw the no longer sterile, but unused supplies, he decided to take them home, instead of throw them out, like he was technically supposed to. When he got home he put it all under the sink with other first aid things, pausing to remove the scalpel first.

He had gotten off work at 10 AM, took his time coming home and then had a leisurely lunch. Having just cleaned it up, he looked at his watch, 12:23.58. Neela shift is over at noon, it takes about 3 minutes to walk to the El, and the El takes about 17 minutes. It's another 4 to walk to the apartment. He quickly added up the numbers. She would literally be home any second, assuming her shift ended on time. When was the last time a shift ended on time? Deciding it was safe, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it in his room on his way to the bathroom. He leaned against the sink pinning a few pieces of paper towel between the bottom of his torso and the edge the sink. It was very systematic. There was an order. There were nine parallel lines, he worked his way up from the bottom for the first four, then started at the top and worked down for the other five. He usually only did one at a time, and so by the time he got to the ninth, the first was usually healed and he'd start back at the bottom. Upon occasion, he'd do more than one at a time, and so the first wasn't healed when the last was done. In those circumstances, he would do it some other place—usually his hip bone, sometimes some place else. There had been a reason for the order, though he could no longer remember what it was, but he wouldn't break the pattern. He had started this ritual in high school, perfected it in college, but hadn't done it since med-school. Well, until last Thursday. On Thursday he cut the first one. Friday was the one above that. Sunday and Monday finished the set of four. He would have done it Saturday and Tuesday too, but he fell asleep before he got the chance. He could see where the other five old lines were, but they were pretty hard to find if you weren't looking. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the scalpel.

Begin

Let the crimson rivers fall
Let the numbness wash over
Stay strong long enough
To let your weakness reign

Watching himself in the mirror he carefully traced the sharp blade from just inside his shoulder socket along the bottom of his collar bone to his sternum. It didn't take long before several red lines were snaking down his chest. As they hit the four lowest cuts, their trails were altered by the uneven skin. When they reached the towel, the color quickly spread out, the fibers pulling the liquid. He repeated his action, this time about a centimeter lower, parallel to the first incision. The presence of the knife temporarily disrupted the flow generated by the first cut, before it added to the volume cascading down his chest. There was now a great enough quantity that the rough skin a few centimeters lower no longer disrupted the path.

He placed the blade on the edge of the sink and watched his life pour down the front of his body. The cuts were close enough to his heart that he could see them pulse the slightest bit, fluctuating the rate of flow. Some of the adrenaline wore off and the acute pain set in. This was his cue to pull the towels out from where they were pinned and draw them up his body to soak up the mess he made.

"Guess what Ray? I actually got out on time today!" He hadn't heard her come in.

"Fuck." He apparently said it louder than intended and she heard him.

"Well, hello to you too," she replied. He kicked his foot back to close the bathroom door, which he had previously neglected to do. It slammed shut. "Ray?" When she walked in, she could see he was standing at the sink, so she knew he wasn't going to the bathroom. She started walking over to the bathroom.

"Yeah, uhh, what? Hi." Shit. You threw your shirt in your room; you've got nothing to cover yourself. Dumbass. A towel! Throw a towel over your shoulder, say you just out of the shower. No, your hair's not wet—wet it in the sink. No, she'll hear that.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, um, fine." Shit! C'mon, think!

"Shit, Ray!" What the hell? Instead of lowering her volume as she got closer to him, it shot up and she had shouted. He turned and saw when he slammed the door, it hadn't latched and it popped back open a little. Looking through the crack she was looking directly into Ray's reflection in the mirror. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing…" She ignored his lie.

"Ray? What did you do?" She tried to push the door open. He stopped it with his foot. Her mind flashed back to Monday morning.

--o--

They were working the same shift. It started at 7 and Neela was groggily walking around the apartment at 5:45 looking for and collecting various things. She was in a tank top and boxer shorts—the A/C in the building was broken. It was already ridiculously hot that morning. Ray stumbled out of his room

"What's with the shirt Ray?" Ray always walked around the apartment in the morning in only his boxers, before finding a need for clothes about 45 minutes later. At first it bothered her, but she admitted, to herself, it wasn't a bad sight. It perked up her mornings.

"You just can't get enough of me, can you?" He grinned. She returned a lighthearted scowl.

"You know it." She laughed. "But seriously, it's not your normal routine and it's already bloody hot! I was considering walking around only in my underwear this morning!"

"Oh you do that, and I'll gladly take this off," he replied, plucking at the front of his shirt.

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"And what is that supposed to mean, Roomie?"

"Nothing," then she added under her breath, "smart-ass."

"I heard that!" He poked her in the shoulder. She returned the favor, gently shoving him in the chest. Before putting back on his playful smile, he grimaced and hunched over like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Hey, you ok? I didn't think I pushed you that hard…"

"You really think you could hurt me, my small little Roomie?" He grinned. She hated when he picked on her size, but it was funny—the thought of Neela, a mere 5'2", accidentally hurting Ray, who was nearly a foot taller.

"I bet I could, if I wanted to. I know you're a big softie."

"Oh I'm sure you could, but you'd need to make a little more of an effort. Give me some credit here." The playful banter had continued, and she was distracted from his odd reaction to her shove.

--o--

This suddenly made things very clear.

"Ray," her voice was full of concern, "talk to me."

"No, really, it's fine." He tried to sound convincing. He didn't.

"There is no way you can ever be 'fine' with blood pouring down your chest. Please, Ray."

He had somewhat controlled the volume, and his torso was decently cleaned. He balled up the paper towels and threw them in the trash, pulled out some more clean ones, and held them to his chest, applying pressure. He took a deep breath, and sliding his foot away from the door allowing it to swing open, he wondered how the hell he was going to explain this.

Do review…positive or not…I know I'm not perfect! (And please tell me, do I have this under the correct genre(s), 'cause I'm not really sure...? Thanks!)