Against your gloved palms rest the gleam of a silver blade, the sharp edge distributing a glare almost menacing to the sight. With a callous scowl, your puce irises were shadowed by the narrowing of your brows, frustration cascading your normally calm visage as the knife was tossed away, the echoing clang of the metal skirting across hardwood coursed throughout your eardrums with an unwelcomed chime, a hiss passing through tight-lipped flesh as fury became evident. Tormented by the forsaken existence of the weapon that lay only a few movements from grasp, the tempting luster crushing your fists into the undoubtful durability of your own hand, the roughness of your worn-skeletal gloves scraping against the bitter-cold skin in which yearned for the greeting cascade of your own genes slipping similar to a miraculous course of potamophilous. It was welcoming, burning, and perhaps even as desperately lustful.
However it had been eight months since the last time such an occasion came to pass, the past brutality of his self-inflicted scars alas making amends with your own self, thin lines pale to the eye obvious against the tone of your Hispanic pigmentation. Deprivation of everything ever held dear, flayed and eroded with the salt of his venomous cruelty and relentless teasing of one in particular. Debauchery potent with vicious feedback, harsh skewering of the shred of decency your victim would convey in a last ditch attempt for some form of acceptance, their own melancholy and longing but a mere fuel to your burning detestment.
It were as though two split sides differentiated by your adolescence was decided by a rough roller-coaster of emotion and the turbulence of your own futile existence. Not even the reign of the Mirthful messiahs could save such a soul this far spiralling into the abyss of your own carnage and waste. A loathful diversity in which resulted in the crumbling existence to those whom you consider friends. Companions over the bile-inducing lot that were other human beings.
The first was the Leijon, a bright, vivacious girl painted with the gentle hues of a lovely shamrock green, eyes an astounding shade of emerald and dark sepia curls in which seemed to collect the suns glistening rays itself with every spring of their step. Round, kind features gentle with the lax of her caramel, Portuguese heritage and high cheek bones that only added to her defining beauty. You could recall the very way her shrill, avid squeals seemed to bounce off any surface, a surrounding requiem in which was melodic in the most indescribable fashions. She was the embodiment of perfection itself, within your flushed views, endearing and captivating with reason that transcended simplistic definition.
You remembered the first time you held hands and how her fingers were small and fine against your course, long ones. A warm in contrast to your cold. It was truly a defining moment to your relationship, only to crumble into madness later on after your vicious night terror resulted in the loss of Meulin's beloved hearing, a sense with a taste to music and the echo of you, her lover's voice.
The second a bodacious, litigious lout that was a Captor. A seemingly innocent childlike boy merely searching for what appeared to be like a friend, a reliable counterpart to a futuristic dynamic duo which you never assumed would come to be apart of. A bombastic soul cheeky and banterful in the most endearing of fashions, who spoke with a thick, Irish lisp that many could not quite decipher with exception to yourself.
With a developed means of conversation, the engaging of gestures and sign-language was distributed between the two of you, hushed laughter dawning upon your beings every time the school librarian would insist you both silenced yourselves in an assumed, quiet-atmosphere, minuscule burns and comments passing from you to the bee-obsessed, sickly pale teenager with taunting snickers that always left them rolling their eyes, eventually giving up on trying to reason. You come to admittance you're slightly contrite for giving them such a difficult time just for doing their job, but it was always in good fun. Right? You thought this for the longest bit, sorrow crest-falling your features as their mental-health had inevitably declined to the point they weren't how they were before, succumbing to the grim jabs made by those around him and lecturing of his behaviour. It made you incredibly enraged when you learned verbal-abuse was apart of Mituna's life, and you made damn sure you made that clear. Sometimes, you even question if they remember who you are any more, and if you are being brutally honest, you wish they didn't.
The third was the loquacious, tendentious brunette of the Vantas. The son of a preacher, no doubt, but also a true bigot at its finest. They were nonetheless amusing to listen to on occasion, and upon others, they really were capable of making your blood boil, flushing your cheeks of notable haematic with exasperation. You were normally unfazed by the sway of their apparently justified, political-views, but it was obvious they were merely full of whatever grandiloquent word of Sesquipedalianism would pass through their chitinous wind-hole. Blasphemous were they, but a considered friend without much question.
You shared disputes every now and again, even properly shared a mutual expression of emotional well-being once before eventually ceding out of requited discomfort and inelegance. Perhaps even at some point you harboured this indescribable sense of pity for the fool. It would make you smile softly with amusement if it weren't for the fact you felt completely and utterly numb.
It was these select few that seemed to maintain your being a grounded individual, containing the iniquity which seemed to dwell within all those whom you have met, some form or another providing extensive knowledge of, such. Despite this recurring revelation, a smile soft and frail etches across your thread-bound lips, the tug of your complacency a finalizing portion of your life as you can feel the pull of an old friend jostling at your seams, unravelling the thick spool of thread in your heart as the emotions released similar to that of a flood gate. The wallowing cry that followed with the rumble in your chest was agonizing as the strings keeping your hushed vigil for all this time at bay, penance for the deed done in the span of your night terrors.
At first, your form is keeling over as everything that you are and ever was, begins to shatter, splinters and glass erupting in your weeping. It is unlike you, a boy as well-known for phlegmatic actions such as yourself to present such genuine emotion, but alas, this was no longer of your primary care. All the fucks you had given, uselessly tossed astray along with the vim of creativity in which would be dealt at your own sleight of hand, an experienced artistic exploration of detest and pathetic whimpers, the stale waft of regret the only end-game to your coursed doings. Oh how familiar the silver was to your touch, your slim form keeling towards the pointed utensil, it's grip tight and comforting in your grasp. Inside your heart thundered wildly without ease, your rib cage seemingly expanding with your every drawn breath, heaving and desperate to dig, to break the skin and fall into the mess of addiction all over again. You had given up the narcotics and alcohol, but this was different. You could heal, fabric over fabric lining your wounds over the timeless process.
As you thought such crude things, one glove slid from your hand, falling aimlessly to the chalk-dusted panels of the creaky old ramshackle of a home, the windows worn and cloudy with dirt and grime that followed with the stringing cobwebs as the structure aged in its hollow existence, your last connection and sense of belonging. But now, this feeling seemed to wither away with self-control, a dangerous shadow casting across your features as the blade pressed against the soft veins poking up menacingly from your wrist, hunger causing a whimper as a response with the first line, too quick and too light, it's end quick and dissatisfying.
This time you would not be merciful, and as though on command, the sting of flayed flesh opening itself to the world corrupted and dank, oxidizing your DNA to pool a lovely shade of runny scarlet, thick beads gathering where the gash bore into your eyes, a twisted grin of insanity surpassing your faltering one of fear. Seeping and dripping, you continued this process, every incision less sparing than the last until the point your arm had begun to numb from the loss of several litres to your fluidity.
The world was spinning and a mess behind the darkness of your closed eyes, the drying salt of your tears cascading a new line down the thin frames of your face, skeletal in itself and pitifully so. What had you yet to lose in it's entirety? You had long forgotten the gentility of another's loving embrace, the tenderness in their touch as they stroke your whimsical curls atop a deep chestnut head of hair, and the brush of a thumb across your cheek in an effort to wipe away the liquid decorated behind optical glands.
What defence say you to these now foreign things? Memories? Nothing, there was nothing. You are nothing, and it was a fact that needed to be accepted. With this thought, bitterness brought a crooked snarl to your woven mouth, the fibres concealing your guttural growl of a voice snapping and ripping apart the holes in which a needle was inserted not long ago. The dull reminder as to how the steel would pass through without much trouble, or how it ached at first though followed with the bittersweet numbness that came shortly after.
It was a conspiracy when conceited informants would describe self-induced harm, and how it was within the victims right of man that it made them, 'feel better', but they couldn't be any more fucking wrong. It wasn't doing a single thing to savour what was left of your mental-state, it just degraded it more and more until the state of being an effervescent wisp of intelligence and vim. It was flat out finding on more reason to destroy yourself rather than on the inside, but the exterior. Actions done not in vain, but that of heinous vigour as a sort of penance for your deeds done in the past.
As your thoughts swam several minutes later, the dagger now cast astray once more, DNA creating a pool around your wrists now stained with the maroon of your own liquids had begun to dry. You had nothing left, and sometimes you even question how you managed to last this long in a twisted world of Earth itself, to be in the presence of vile beings called; humans, and manage to keep the sleep-endorsing medication from comatizing you unto an endless, dreamless sleep or the burn of a scratchy loop of rope. These were questions that wandered in the cortex of your mind, an inevitably hostile outcome in relative instance because of your own exhausting existence. Maybe you were truly transforming into the fool Kankri believes you to be, and if that not only makes your exasperation grow stronger, then you're uncertain as to what wouldn't.
You're spiralling, the world an omniscient blur of colour and motion, streaks of variable hues painted across your perception, as this was chaos in its finest quality. You silently pondered as to how long it would take for you to fully be bled of any vital pints to your precious, secreting DNA, or if it would be a mess to clean later. You're uncertain as your eyelids slide over glazing amethyst orbs, your atmospheric conditions but a mere haze and cloud from your slow decomposition.
From the mellowing thuds of your heartbeat in your ears, the sliding of wood on wood grasps your ever-fading senses. There was a sharp cry that was what you assumed to be your name and the faint contact of a red-sweater clad individual against your form. Their sobs racked though your cooled form, once-lavender hued pupils with a devious lean now reserved to only the blank, fazed glance staring up eternally into the dark of your lids, a smile crooked and gentle against your lips.
You were redeemed at last.