Bad Habit
A/N: More Bade! Those reviewers and favoriters (so not a words, ik.) for my other Bade fic "Appreciation" really inspired me to write another one. I personally think that this one isn't as great as "Appreciation" though. And if you haven't yet read it, I recommend to check it out. Thanks! R&R!
Oh, btw, I made this take place where Beck and Jade are in 8th grade because I think it was mentioned before that they'd been dating for three years and they're about it their second year of high school, right, cuz they're around sixteen? But then again, Jade also said in "Jade Dumps Beck" that they'd been dating for a year and eleven months. But whateves. I'm following the wiki. So here we go with another "Jade is cutting O.O" fic.
"You cut yourself."
He was peering down at her with luminous, brown eyes, a mixture of confusion, disappointment, worry, and other emotions that she didn't give a damn about swirling around inside them.
She glared up at him from her place on the bathroom floor, leaning against the bathtub with the fishnet sleeves scrunched up on her right arm, which exposed the numerous, red gashes along the underside.
Some were fresh, a deep, scarlet in color, and others were a yellow-brown around the edges, sickening and disgusting . . . grotesque. It described her entire arm, raw yet scabby . . . pale, causing all of the slashes and wounds to stand out.
The sight of it was revolting, as she could clearly see it on his face, however she wasn't ashamed nor remorseful . . . after all, she'd been the one to do it to herself, the one to experience the lovely burning sensation in her arm as she grazed it sharply with the tip of a screw and watched her rich, crimson blood stain her skin.
It hadn't exactly been a question, but she still answered with a "Yeah."
Because she'd get urges . . . urges to endure pain and hurt, no matter where she was at the moment.
Even at school, when the dreadful feeling would creep and weigh on her chest and head, she'd excuse herself to the bathroom and wrench the screw out of a pocket, drawing it roughly across her forearm.
She would scratch harder and harder until her skin tore and blood would begin to bead along the lesion, dripping down underneath her arm where it hung for half a second before dropping into the sink.
She used a screw because they were blunter than knives or razors and caused more pain and attempts before finally bleeding.
She yearned to feel the agony; it felt so good, so pleasing, the stinging of the cuts under water delightful.
She'd let the blood flow and pool until she felt winded and used toilet paper to stop it up, the breathlessness always startling her as it dawned on her that she might've been dying, or something, and then was desperate to stop the mild hemorrhage.
But what upset her the most was the fact that she wanted to be hurt, longed for the affliction for reasons she didn't understand. She injured herself with a bolt, but she could have in any other way and still feel fine: breaking her leg, severing a limb, stabbing herself.
Any way could have worked.
And that was unsettling to say the least.
She'd never told anybody . . . the whole prospect sounded crazy; it felt insane, but she knew she wasn't.
She was not!
She just loved to savor pain, the aching, and strangely, there wasn't enough of the good kind- the scrumptious kind -in the world anymore, so she just had to cause it herself . . . .
He moved closer to her, concern etched across his handsome features, and for a moment, she'd forgotten why he was there in her house, all of the anger dissipating. But it soon returned with a vengeance when she recalled what he'd done.
They were assigned a science project together, which had been something that had ultimately pissed her off because she'd spent about the last two weeks trying to avoid him.
He was always following her around, conjuring pointless conversations, and was the new kid that all for the girls fawned over because of his looks.
But he never asked any questions . . . never prodded her about the different dyes and extensions in her hair, about why she had them in, or about the makeup and amount of black she was regularly clad in.
No.
Instead, it was always a, "How do you get your hair so soft?" when he'd suddenly materialize behind her with his fingers in her locks- resulting in an irate slap to the face by her- or a "Which side of your family did you get such gorgeous eyes from?" from his seat across from hers in Language Arts. She'd punched his shoulder for making her blush as she did . . . his voice had sounded so chaste, as if he truly wondered.
He wasn't . . . hitting on her, was he? That . . . that wasn't exactly alien to her, but it was something that hadn't occurred in a while . . . .
So when they'd been given the afterschool assignment, they'd bickered over whose house to go over to. She'd somehow lost because of his wild excuse that his place was cramped and that he'd been living on his own since thirteen.
They were to sort of explain atom reactions on a poster board, or something, and then give a demonstration.
During some point and time, sprawled out on the living room carpet, he had removed his jacket, revealing the clean, tanned skin on his arms.
They were bare and . . . and smooth. There were no marks on his arms, no scars, slightly muscular . . . they were beautiful. So unlike her own.
There had been a biting jealousy and rage that had ignited within her chest and she'd felt an undying desire to claw at his skin, to shred them up so that they resembled her own.
Ugly.
Her hand had impulsively slid to the screw in her back pocket, her heart rate thudding faster as she leapt to her feet, body trembling mildly.
"Jade? You ok?" Worry doused his words . . . genuine unease.
No. "And why would you to care?" She'd spat resentfully. "I'm fine. Bathroom break. You stay right here."
She had decided to reroute the bitterness . . . direct it at herself. It might've even been at herself in the first place.
Confused, she'd slumped to the floor, slitting the screw across one arm in a jagged line.
It'd hurt . . . it had hurt so badly that it was excruciating, blood collecting on the first strike.
But it wasn't sufficient. She wanted more throbbing, more of the thrill, the hurt. It was like an antidote: if she thrived for enough of it, she'd partially feel better afterward.
She'd slashed again, opening a healing sore and yelping slightly at the delicious feeling; it was still tender . . . all the more exciting.
The scab cracked and blood seeped through, even more than the new cut.
And next thing she knew, he was knocking on the door and rattling the locked knob.
Like, what the hell?
"Jade? Jade? Are you alright in there? I heard you scream and-"
Panicked, she'd banged her shoulder on the bathtub. "Dude, go away! I said I'm fine!"
Her voice had been husky . . . hoarse, sounding exactly as if she were doing something naughty.
He'd been silent for a moment, leaving her anxious and bleeding on the floor.
And then the door had slowly unlocked, creaking open as he hesitantly stepped inside.
It was then that she realized what had happened: for whatever reason her expensive house did, it had those screwed-up bathroom locks what could be opened with a stupid penny. That was precisely what Beck had done, the copper coin shining in his grip.
"Jade . . . let me see." He settled himself on the closed, toilet seat, reaching down to hold her damaged arm in his grasp.
She quickly jerked away, pressing her back tightly against the white, bathtub. "N-no." Dread was clenching at her chest, the usual headache pounding on her head. She needed the torture. It . . . her pleasure wasn't over with so far. "I'm not done yet!"
Her arm was still bleeding freely and she gouged it again with the bolt.
"Hey." His voice was full of authority as he grabbed for her other arm instead, holding it back. "Don't do that."
She stared at him in disbelief, wondering how he dared to touch her, dared to prevent her from doing what she needed to.
Didn't he know how she felt?
Wrath combusted inside her. "Get your hands off of me, Beck!"
Yet, he held her gently, calmly, even though she was fuming. "Jade . . . how . . . how could you do this to yourself?"
His chocolate eyes studied her intently, as if he really couldn't wrap his head around it.
"Because I can," she snapped heatedly. "And because it's none of your business how I can or cannot do something and that there's nobody to care."
"Your parents don't care?"
"My parents don't know. And I'm assuming you won't tell them?"
He was silent, his gaze never leaving her body. It made her feel uncomfortable, angry, and guilty for some reason.
He still never let her go, no matter how badly she wanted to get back to cutting, no matter how badly she desired her only bliss. And he was ruining it, causing her pain by not causing pain, and it wasn't the kind she loved. It was distressing her.
Blood dropped onto her dark leggings.
"Jade . . ." He was examining her scarred, self-mutilated skin, his expression pained. Why was it? He wasn't the one being confronted like she was. He wasn't the one with a maimed limb. She barely even knew him. "Why would . . . I'd never thought you one to do this to yourself. You're so self-assured, so daring, so . . . 'I don't give a shit.' Why would you want this?"
Her breath caught in her throat for a second. What did he know about her? About what she wanted or how she was?
She didn't care about what he thought. Big, tough Jade cuts herself. She hurts herself. She slits herself. And she likes it.
So maybe she wasn't as strong as everyone thought. Nobody knew shit about her. And if all of those things Beck had named were true about her, he'd forgotten one thing: she was unpredictable. So no duh, he didn't believe what she did.
Of course he wouldn't believe her if she told him she wasn't as hard as he thought, that she cried after every cutting episode, anguished and disgusted with herself and a weak oath that she would never do it again.
But she always did, the urges coming faster and the gashes deeper.
Her throat constricted as she hissed, "Get out of my fucking bathroom."
He blinked, leaning forward from his seat on the edge of the toilet. "I want to help you, Jade."
She yanked her arm back, swiping a hack so unbearable and deep, that she could've shed a tear. That one did it, then. That last cut. It was all she needed and she felt the slightest bit better.
And she regretted it, the usual nausea and distaste towards herself growing until she felt she was going to be sick.
Her blood was still flowing and she reached across for the roll of toilet paper, fighting the must to cry in front of Beck.
Beck.
The one who thought he knew her through and through.
Maybe . . . he did.
She noticed him edging even closer and she lowered teary eyes, pressing a wad of toilet paper firmly to her injuries, watching her blood dominate the white color.
"Jade. Jade, please answer me."
Her arm throbbed. Everything really hurt afterward, really hurt in a way that she didn't fancy, that she found more agonizing than when she actually cut. His caring, tender voice hurt.
Her voice cracked. "Just . . . leave, Beck, go away and work on the damn project." She really didn't want him to go. She wanted him to stay . . . stay and help her like he said he would.
"I can't." He extended one of his good-looking arms to tuck a stray lock of her light, brunette hair behind one of her ears. "I . . . can't. You have to tell me why you do this. Do you honestly think this is right? To ruin your body like that? You're so beautiful, Jade, and I . . . I can't get . . . ."
Running a tense hand through his hair, he trailed away, and his touch, his tone, his empathy . . . caused her tears to finally fall, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her breathing jagged.
"Y-you don't know how I think," she managed to croak. He thought she was beautiful? Honestly? Even though she did what she did, how she dressed, what her body looked like? He thought she was beautiful?
"I don't. I really don't, Jade." Gentle hands brushed her tears away, but she didn't stop them; she just wanted to cry and cry and cry. "You're a difficult one to decipher. But I'm willing to try. I want to help you."
She wanted to crumble in his embrace, to sob into his shoulder and have him comfort her, but restrained.
He took her bad arm again, observing it closely, staring at the clotted blood. Shockingly, she noted that his eyes were also watery as he brought her fingers to his lips. She hissed; just bending her arm, widening the slits . . . it was too awful.
She avoided his gaze after that, wondering if she'd made him cry, if she'd appalled him in some way . . . .
"Why are you crying?" It was a selfish question, really, so like her, she realized. Was it like she was the only one able to weep because of what she did to herself?
He bowed his head. "You're . . . so hurt, Jade. I just . . . I hate to see you like this . . . ."
He was crying for her, his tears for her . . . . He truly cared, didn't he, actually concerned about her? He would actually cry for her, a girl he'd only known for two weeks and had been particularly rude to him in all those days, but he'd weep for her as if they'd been friends forever.
"I'm sorry." The words were ripped from her throat as a choked sob and she really was sorry. Regretful . . . ashamed . . . she was sorry for what she did to herself and of being obsessed and such a sick person for disrespecting herself. Her head dropped into her hands. "So sorry, Beck, I . . . I shouldn't do this, it's low of me and I couldn't help it and . . . I'm sorry, really, please just help me. Help me stop. I want to. I need to."
He scooted off of the toilet, kneeling to face her. His eyes made her heart leap. "I will help you Jade, because I can't stand to see you so hurt like this. I hate seeing you injure yourself, creating blemishes, when you're so flawless. Pretty. Exquisite and fierce." One hand cupped one of her tear-stained cheeks. "You know, I really like you, Jade."
She was speechless, not knowing what to say next, only staring into his warm, caring eyes that held so much kindness. She did, however, know what to do next, which was to take his arms and wrap them around her body, and enclose hers around his.
His warmth was consoling, his hair tickling her neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. She could've done with a hug. She needed that hug, and Beck should've been grateful for hers because she put her all into it.
Her apologies, her gratitude, her respect for him . . . that was what the hug was for. Yet, she still needed an embrace back from him, just for . . . for extra support.
She didn't recall very clearly what had happened after the hug, except for the fact that Beck had actually scoured her bathroom cabinets for some of that . . . hydrogen peroxide stuff to dab on her wounds, and then wrapping her arm in some bandages that she didn't even know she'd had.
She did remember, though, quite vividly, after startlingly kissing one of her cheeks, him telling her that they were friends, weren't they, and that he'd have her back no matter what and that if she needed to talk to somebody . . . he'd be there.
Jade West didn't like to talk. She wasn't fond of it, exactly- she was all about action. But with Beck Oliver . . . she might've just made an exception.
A/N: The End! Hmm . . . no OOCness, with any luck? I hope you liked this piece, even though I felt it went in different angles and that Jade's personality changed drastically, or something. Anyway, hopefully you'll give me a nice review, eh? Don't I deserve one? XD, jk. But please review, nonetheless.