Hello there. This is a serious story. Let me warn you, this is not a light, fluffy story (if you'd like a light, fluffy story, please exit out of this one for the sake of your sanity)... It's rather dark, and it explores the pitfalls of depression. This is dedicated to all of the boys who cut, because it seems as if the public doesn't acknowledge boys'/men's depression as much of a big deal as girls'/women's depression. (I personally find this fact absolutely disgusting.) I used cutting as the method of self-harm in the story, but please note that there are other ways as well; such as burning, bruising, hitting, and food binging (and the list goes on from there).
Dear all of the self-harmers reading this,
Just find the one thing that makes you happy, and do it. As the leadsman of the brilliant band, Sleeping With Sirens, once said, "Wrists are for bracelets, not for cutting." So chin up, beautiful. You are one of a kind, and you shouldn't let anything hide your beauty. I know it's difficult to stop, but I have all faith in you that you can. I love you.
-scissorsarecool xx
Ship(s): Rane
Song(s) Used: None for this chapter.
Some Background Knowledge for this Story: A bit OOC. It tells a story of a depressed Reed. Shane goes to Dalton.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or Dalton.
Warning: May be triggering. I apologize in advance for the graphic scenes.
Reed Van Kamp stood smiling and waved at the shrinking figure of Shane Anderson in the distance. Reed turned, his empty smile washed completely off of his face. He walked back into his room. He wasn't allowed near sharp objects, but he somehow got acquainted with a razor blade he'd found one morning in the hallway. At first, Reed just kept it in a drawer, not really knowing what to do. However, an eventful afternoon of listening to criticism from Hilde Van Kamp changed it all. Everything about his appearance to his dreams displeased her, and all he could say about that at the end was, "I'm sorry." A look in the mirror afterwards upset him. He didn't want anyone else to be hurt by him, so he hurt himself.
A couple of days had passed since the incident of his first cutting. Reed was now in the privacy of his own room. He decided to take a nap. He flopped onto his bed and immediately fell fast asleep.
But good things come and go. His phone ringing on his bedside table interrupted the peaceful nap. He waited a bit, hoping that the caller would give up, but the caller tried again. On the third try, Reed finally gave in and picked up.
"Hello?" Reed answered groggily.
"Reed," he immediately recognized his mother's voice. "I saw that piece of crap you painted the other day. I despised it."
Reed choked a sob and felt tears brewing in his eyes.
"Sweetie, becoming the next Hilde Van Kamp will insure you a job, and being taller will have people look up to you. You don't need to starve by drawing silly things like that. I was just letting you know. Also, do something about your hair. I have to go. Love you. Bye." Reed's mother hung up. Reed felt the tears streaming down his cheeks. Did she really love him, or were they just words? Words will be just words until they're brought to life, right?
His fingers delicately grazed the razor blade, which was now sitting on the bedside table. Still lying in bed, he felt numb and stared at the ceiling while his fingers toyed with the blade. He abruptly got up, and grabbed the razor blade in between his index finger and thumb. He walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and looked into the mirror. He saw a hollow shell of someone he used to know. Someone who was against harm. A person who was gentle. Who was he now? Some numb freak with crazy hair? He inhaled, holding the breath for a bit and poked the corner of the blade against his left forearm. He let the breath out quickly and snapped the blade away from his arm. He cradled it in his hand and pulled his right pant up, only to reveal scars from the other day. They weren't arranged in any particular fashion and took over his thigh.
Once again, Reed placed the blade against his wrist and pressed. He then dragged the blade, making the first incision. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through his body. He moved the blade lower this time, only to repeat the process of making the cuts on his left arm. Leaving the wounds to be there. By the time he felt a bit better, he'd made five horizontal cuts, in a neat vertical line going down his forearm.
Reed looked at his creation. His blood dribbled out of the corners of the cuts. He gulped a few times and went on to run the water to clean the blade. The water showered the blade, causing the blood to run clearly off and into the drain. Meanwhile the inclined position of his arm while he was cleaning the blade caused the slits to trickle blood down his arm. The blood made its way down toward his hand and into the sink, creating a small pool of light red towards the center as the water mixed with the blood before it made its way down, lost forever in the drain.