Note to readers: This story was based off of a prompt provided by a very lovely person over at LJ.

Take the World
Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, AU
Length: This part is 1298

Instead of a summary, here's the prompt this was inspired by: I've read a few fics where Arthur suffers from major psychological problems, and he goes a bit mental. But I'd like a fic where he suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder. I don't want the over the top, dramatic and false portrayal of the illness though. I want Arthur to have varied mood swings (really happy, depressed, anxious etc). I want him to abuse prescription medication and alcohol. I want him to cut himself (not for attention, but to relieve his anxiety and calm himself). I want him to have massive fears of abandonment from Eames, as well as periods when he truly believes that Eames doesn't love him. I want him to take a non-fatal overdose and be in hospital, but not end up being locked away afterwards.

Disclaimer: Umm...Nolan's a BAMF and I cannot compare.

Thanks to: Many many thanks to my friend over at LJ who provided me with the prompt. Your prompt really inspired me to write this and I couldn't have done it without you!

I hear the clicking of the T.V. One. Two. Three. Four. Four times the channels click. Four times I am unsatisfied. I set down the remote and grab my cell off the table. The face is blinking—'3 missed calls'. Hmm. Pressing the enter key, I pull up the main menu only to find that every call is from Ariadne. She needs to learn to fuck off and leave me be. All of her little obnoxious habits; checking in on me, seeing whether I'm having a good day or a bad day. Maybe my day would be a little bit better if you weren't crawling down my throat all the damn time. Tossing my phone back on the table, I stand up and stretch myself out. There is only one number I want to blink on that phone and it isn't hers. It has been three days. Three. Fucking. Days. And not a word. Not a single word from that bastard. I let out a vulgar curse before walking into my small kitchen. There she is, beautiful and regal, standing there by the sink looking back at me with her dour, crooked eyes. As if vodka could have eyes that is. Grabbing my glass from the cupboard, I start to fill it up, watching as the clear liquid oozes into the glass like water—delicious, kind, comforting water…

"And the mood goes from urgent to not so as hours pass slow. Screaming this is surrender." I hear the song titter from my phone as it skitters across the table pathetically. Ah, lovely. Time for my meds. With glass in hand, I head to the bathroom and set the glass down on the counter and open up the medicine cabinet. Sometimes I forget which bottle is which. So many pills. So many meds. Isn't there enough shit wrong with my body already? Are these little tiny things supposed to actually help me? Take off the edge of my anxiety and chase away that little voice inside of my head, that little voice that tells me I am on the verge of collapse? Whatever. Fuck it. If the doctors say it is okay for me to take all these drugs, why not appreciate it? I grab hold of the necessary bottle and dump out three pills. The label says to take one a day with water. I snort. Oh yes, one little pill is going to work. Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it. I glance down at the glass on the counter and sigh. Why are they adamant against making this process easy? I check the label again. Clear across the bottom tab, in a small, minuscule script reads: 'Not to be taken with alcohol'. My eye twitches in irritation as if this were the first time I've come across this predicament, which it isn't. I have the same routine every single day. And every single evening I have this same dispute—water or vodka, good boy or bad boy, to be or not to be—oh the question of it all.

Arthur. Just do it. Why wouldn't you? Take it easy. Let the pills do their job. Of course. Of course I should do it. I throw the innocuous little bits into my mouth and take a swig from my glass. Ah. Delicious. I hear the buzz of my phone against the wooden table yet again. Jesus Christ people, leave me be! By the time you finish calling me there's going to be a fucking hole in the table from the never-ending, incessant buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. When the noise doesn't stop, I snarl and head back into the family room. Looking down at the phone, I see Ariadne's number splashed across its surface in thick black numbers. GO AWAY. I pick up the phone and click the 'on' button. "What the hell do you want?"

"No need to sound so bitchy, Arthur. Where's my sweet friend who takes me out for movie night and ice cream?"

"He's not here at the moment so piss off."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Temper, temper. Really though, dear, how are you? I haven't heard from you in days. Is everything alright?"

I let out a sigh and bite my lip. No, everything is not fine. You are nagging me unremittingly like some tape on repeat and my boyfriend is being a complete and utter DICK. "Yes," I seethe. "Now please, let me be for a while. Call again tomorrow, okay? I really don't need this aggravation right now."

Ariadne sighs on the other end. "Are you sure you don't want me to come over?"

"Yes, now goodnight." I click the 'off' button and sit down on the couch. I cast my head down only to find that my hands are shaking and my foot is tapping. When did that happen? You are fine, Arthur, everything is alright. Eames could not be calling for any number of reasons. He got busy at work. He has been tired. He just…you know? No, I don't know, I don't fucking know. Running my trembling hands through my hair, I swallow thickly and try to collect myself. We fucked this weekend, we had sex for the very first time and he hasn't said a single thing to me since that day. He doesn't give a shit about me, does he? And why would he? I mean, just look at me—my disgusting scars, my effeminate body, my wretched illness. But he told me he loved me, he swore it to me! But how do I know, how can I possibly know? I spring up off the couch and start pacing. Christ. I take in a shaky breath and do the only logical course of action—I race back into the bathroom. Sitting on the counter edge is still my glass of water, vodka, whatever. I grasp it in my hand and chug it. SHIT! I slam the glass down and hack, my lungs burning as if acid had been poured down my throat. Bleary eyes look back at me in the wavering image of the mirror starkly asking the question 'why'? This is not enough; the tension, the fear, all of it is still clawing at my chest as if it could crawl out of skin. And then I see it—there, on the sink's edge. I quickly reach out and grasp the handle, trying to force my fingers into stillness. My entire hand quivers as the glint of steel flashes down. YES.

There is blood seeping down my arm from where my skin lays jagged and open to the world. I take in a shuddering breath and practically sigh with orgasmic relief. Deep, dark red gore continues to rain down my arm in rivulets but I don't care, for as I watch its migration, there is a sense of correctness back in my world. I bite my lip and listen to the beat of my heart as it slows its rapid assault against my ribs. I am okay. We are okay. Eames told me he loved me. He promised me.

I drop the bloodied razor into the sink and cannot help the temptation of taking my thumb and pressing it against the wound. I hiss at the pain, but nevertheless press on. Another drop of blood oozes over the top of my finger and skates down my skin. The cut was a bit deep this time; however, a little extra blood never hurt anyone, besides, it makes my nerves run from me all the quicker. I regard the red liquid on my arm and feel a sense of calm begin to make its home inside of me. So beautiful a pattern the blood makes, as if it were a piece of art and I the artist.