AN: I said this in the description, but this story deals with some pretty serious issues in a pretty focused way. PLEASE consider your well-being before you read this. I really don't want someone hurting themselves over this. That being said, I am always here to help and talk to people if needed. I've been through this myself, and I will always listen. You can message me here or on my Tumblr; superwholockorgy dot tumblr dot com.

Dave Strider's trembling hands fumbled for the lock on the bathroom door, pushing it closed. His knees gave out and his shoulders slumped forward. His whole body shook with silent sobs, tears pouring down his cheeks. He felt weak, lost, scared, so alone….

"Faggot." They'd called him. "Albino. Pussy." Every day. Every time they saw him. And today had been worse. They'd pushed him into the lockers. They'd locked him in the bathroom stalls. They'd dumped his books out of his arms. "Faggot. Albino. Pussy." And the whole time Dave had to keep his mask of neutrality on. He couldn't let them see how scared he was. Just take it, he'd thought, and they'll go away. But they didn't.

So now Dave was there is his bathroom, crying where nobody could see him. God, was this pathetic or what?

The longer Dave waited, crying alone, the more doubt pushed at the edges of his mind. They might be right. It sung. Faggot. Albino. Pussy. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. You waste of space. Nobody cares. He had John, Jade, Rose. They cared. Only because they don't know the real you. He had bro. Bro, who'd looked after him since he was a kid. Bro, who'd taught him everything he'd known. He had no choice. He never wanted this. Nobody wants you.

Dave found his feet, pushing himself up off the floor to look in the mirror.

Faggot.

He pushed up his sleeve, then reached into bro's drawer under the sink.

Albino.

His fingers brushed the cold metal razor and he pulled it out, turning it carefully in his fingers.

Pussy.

His hand steadied as he brought the blade against his skin. Again and again, until his wrist was covered in cuts.

Waste of space.

He dropped the blade into the sink, staring at pearls of red oozing out of his veins. Everything seemed suspended in time as he watched the blood drip into the sink.

The sudden sound of the front door opening and slamming shut jolted Dave out of his trance, and a quiet curse fell from his lips. He turned on the sink quickly, running the cool water over the cuts and the blade and then grabbed a large band-aid from under the sink. He slapped it on quickly, shoved the razor into his back pocket, and pulled down his sleeves again. He splashed his face a couple times before shoving his sunglasses onto his face and shutting off the water.

"Dave?" Bro's voice called out through the house.

"One sec!" Dave called back checking the mirror one last time before he pulled the door open. "'Sup?"

His brother was standing in the kitchen, trying to find space in the fridge to put the milk he'd just bought. "Just wondering if you were home. Your shit was in the living room, so I didn't know if you just dropped it and ditched or something." He explained. "Also, do you wanna have a quick strife before dinner?"

Dave had wandered into the living room to grab his backpack and peered in the doorway again. "Nah, I got homework and shit to do." He lied. "I'll be down for dinner."

He didn't wait for his brother's response before he sped up to his room. He dropped his bag on his desk chair and collapsed into his bed. He always hated lying to his brother, but how could he explain this? He was too weak to stand up to the assholes at school, so he took it out on himself?

He pulled the razor carefully out of his pocket and shoved it into his bedside table drawer. When he would look back at this moment later on, it was a terrible idea. He should've just gotten rid of it right then and forgot about the whole thing. But, of course, that wasn't the case. And with that one lapse of judgment, he unknowingly started on of the worst chapters of his life.

ΔΔΔ

Hell didn't ensue all at once, of course. It built upon itself for weeks until Dave Strider returned to the comfort the razor through his skin brought him. Then it was again put away for some time before another use. Gradually, the time between each instance decreased, as the depth and number of cuts increased with each use. One day, Dave smuggled a box cutter home from art class to use as well. Eventually, a pocket knife was added to the bedside table's drawer.

He pretended everything was fine, which was easier with his internet friends than his brother. He kept making excuses for skipping strifes when the real reason was the fear of discovery. He would occasionally game with his brother, but he would wait a few days after the incident so a sudden movement wouldn't reopen the cuts. Despite, or perhaps because of, his precautions, bro was becoming suspicious.

As months passed, the bullies grew tired of pestering someone who had grown so numb to their taunts and it ceased for a few days. Then Dave started seeking out excuses to cut again. He didn't admit it to himself at the time, but he'd grown addicted to it. He felt lonely without the throbbing pain reminding him of his place.

When he took to cutting his thighs and ankles instead of his wrists, he restarted the rooftop strifes with his brother, who seemed relieved. When bro asked, Dave gave him some bullshit excuse about school work. Bro didn't believe it but he didn't pry, believing that everything had returned to normal. But there were new cuts appearing on Dave's legs nightly now, and he'd begun to take a sick pleasure from the pain. He no longer felt too guilty, accepting it as normality.

A year had passed since Dave had first cut and it was still his best-kept secret, only now it was routine.

ΔΔΔ