Author's Note: This is my first fanfic! Hopefully, you won't hate it… This chapter is a stream of consciousness from Ritsuka's point of view as he thinks about his mother, but that should be obvious. Read and review!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
HateHurt
She hates me. I wouldn't call it a well-kept secret, if it's meant to be a secret at all. When I do something well, all she can see is what's still wrong; when I ask a question, it's defiance (something her real son would never do); and when I actually do something wrong, no matter how small of a matter and despite my continual apologies and regrets, she explodes. She hates me, and I know it.
It hurts. The pain is more mental than anything else, but I wish it were confined to the physical. That, at least, can heal with time and treatment. It fades, and you can become accustomed to it. My pain grows each day, and I have no outlet for it. I have always been very nonviolent, but some days I just get the urge to punch a wall with all my strength, to watch my knuckles split, to hear and see the bones crack, to look on as my blood flows out, warm and sticky, dripping onto the spotlessly clean floors. But I could never do that. People would see my bandages and wonder what happened. They might see through the walls I spent years building up around my heart; I can't let anyone know about my struggles, the inner pain and turmoil. So I let my pain out the only way I know how…I cut.
That's right; I, the boy with pristine grades, caring friends, and a stoic, nonchalant exterior, cut. Why? The reason depends on the day. Sometimes it's to feel numb, to block out everything that has happened. Other times it's so that I can feel something, anything at all, other than the internal pain I was feeling when I inflicted the injury.
I tried to stop. I try over and over again, but somehow I always revert back to the blade. I know that it cannot solve my problems; if anything, it further complicates my life. I am continually forced to hide my scars lest someone see them. I must avoid blatant changes in attire, such as wristbands or long sleeves, which would arouse suspicion. My brother once caught a glimpse of my arms, but I made an excuse and he seemed to let it go. Come to think of it, he should have seen right through my transparent guise, given the uniformity of the scars; then again, maybe he couldn't believe I would be so stupid because he thinks so well of me. I can hardly believe I'm so stupid. The cutting is oddly addicting, though; lately I have found myself craving the release it provides, desperately wishing to see the very substance of life flowing freely down my arms, trickling over my hands, and dripping off my fingertips.
Every time mom snaps, cursing my inability to be the person I once was or to be more like my perfect brother, I crave my razor more than ever, effectively thwarting my efforts to quit. More than anything, I want someone to talk to, someone who can listen to me without judging, someone who understands and truly cares. I suppose I just want someone to love me. Love – I have begun to forget what it feels like.
What did you think? I know it's choppy and might flow awkwardly, but that's kind of the point. Thoughts aren't exactly poetic. I'm not a huge fan of this, but it isn't even really a fanfic anyway. I just adapted a diary entry of mine (the only one I have bothered to write in years) because I thought it could fit into this category. Onto the next chapter! *Whoosh!* Please leave a review!