Mike wasn't sure what he'd do if anyone else found out. The mere idea of it had been pushed back so far in his mind that he never bothered to worry. Of course when he first started, he worried. He worried all the time. But then the worry only proved to make him anxious, and as a result of being anxious, he'd cut. Which would only make him more worried, self-loathing, and anxious, which would make him cut again. It was a vicious circle, one that Mike had always felt was impossible to get out of; so he stopped trying. But then he'd gotten a job as a lawyer – a real, actual, legitimate lawyer – working for a real law firm, and for a real senior-partner, and everything changed. He'd felt like he'd been given the Holy Grail, and while the days passed into weeks, and the weeks passed into months, the euphoria and happiness he'd felt never really faded away.

With this new change came new choices, and Mike was determined to make a life for himself that his parents would be proud of. He stopped smoking pot, stopped spending time with Trevor, and even eventually stopped hanging out with Jenny. His paycheque increased to numbers he wasn't even sure he'd seen in his entire lifetime, and suddenly the burden of supporting both himself and his grandmother was gone. All of the debts he'd incurred over the years were now being paid, and he'd even been able to pay ahead on his rent. And most of all – he'd stopped cutting. It had been a conscious and difficult decision, but one that Mike was determined to keep, because everyone had to start somewhere and that time might as well be now. And as he continued working for Harvey, his life continued to get better in every single way imaginable. Everything was looking up.

But then the fight with Harvey came and everything had come crashing down.

He'd come back to his apartment that night seething with anger, not the least of which was directed at himself. He'd been angry that Harvey was mad at him, but he was just as angry that he'd let Jessica threaten him and he didn't go to Harvey about it. He was stupid – he was so, so stupid. Harvey was right; he should have gone directly to him as soon as he was in trouble, he should have trusted him to take care of it, to help him. But he hadn't. And now they were here, in this massive mess, all thanks to him, and Mike wondered if everything he had been working for the past year had just been blown into a million pieces.

He'd sat on his sofa for nearly an hour, running his hands through his hair and trying to calm himself down. But Harvey was right. He was the biggest idiot in the world; he was a liar, he was a traitor – it was no wonder that Harvey hated him; that of course meant Donna hated him, too, and when word got out, he wouldn't have a single friend in that building left. So when his eyes began to grow hot and sting, and he happened to look up at the kitchen drawer, he knew what he had to do. Without a second thought he got up and walked into the kitchen, pulling a knife out of its holder. It wasn't a large knife, not as large as he'd used before, but it wasn't small, either. It had a slightly jagged run to it, which Mike usually used for cutting bread. But not tonight.

Mike gripped the knife tightly in his hand and walked back to the sofa, quietly sitting down. He stared at the knife for a moment, before quickly rolling up his sleeve. He placed the edge of the knife against his skin, hesitating for only a second before pressing it in and sliding it across.

Blood welled up from the wound, hiding the cut and staining the knife. Mike finished the cut and stared at it for a moment, watching the blood pool and run down the side of his wrist. His arm stung, but he didn't feel it, so he placed the knife an inch below the cut and began again.

Six more times he did it. He relished in the feeling of the serrated edge digging into his skin, forcefully and painfully pulling it apart. He watched with satisfaction as the blood ran down his arm, dripping onto the floor. On the seventh cut he stopped, because, he thought vaguely, seven was a lucky number, and luck was something he desperately needed right now.

He'd sat back into the sofa, feeling a bit light-headed, his arm held out before him like a sacred object in a reliquary. He watched as the blood from the cuts met and joined each other, covering his arm in red from his wrist to his elbow. The blood dripped unceasingly, Mike unaware that it was leaving a very large stain on his pants.

Mike suddenly felt very tired; everything that had happened that day seemed to catch up with him at that moment, and any energy he'd still had drained away along with all of his worry over Harvey, Jessica, Pearson-Hardman, and every stupid, detestable, idiotic thing he'd ever done.

As his eyes began to fall lower with every blink, he wondered if maybe he should put something on the cuts to stop them from bleeding. But as he watched the blood fall, and the pain of the cuts overwhelmed his thoughts, he realised that he didn't care – and that whatever happened, happened. So he closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

The next day he'd woken to find that, very much by accident, he had tucked his arm in his side during the night, which had probably stopped the bleeding. His arm had stuck to his white button-up as a result, and stung as he pulled it away from the fabric. A few of the cuts re-opened at the movement, but the bleeding was little compared to the night before. He walked to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower; afterwards he grabbed some Band-Aids, putting them on haphazardly, knowing that he already was late for work. He didn't think much of it as he grabbed a new shirt out of his closet and put it on, the feeling of euphoria and calm still not having worn off, but he made sure his cuffs completely covered his wrist up to the palm, and making sure his jacket did as well.

He thought it would be just the one time. That this fight with Harvey would be over soon, and that everything would get back to normal. But despite his hopes and determination to not let his life fall off a tail-spin like it had too many times before, he found that after having started cutting, he couldn't stop. The night after he first cut, he found himself cutting again, adding more lines to the ones already gathered on his arm. Harvey hadn't accepted his apology, not even when he apologized a million times. And the looks Harvey had given him – they made him feel like scum, like the worst person to have ever walked the earth, as though Harvey couldn't believe that he was still alive. Mike tried to put on a smile, to pretend that it didn't bother him. But it did. It always did.

The cutting was worse during his banishment from Harvey and Donna's life than it had been in the last eight years combined. He cut every night, making new marks on every free space of arm and shoulder, for every stupid thing he did each day, for every look of despise that Harvey reigned down on him, for every look of pity that Donna gave when he walked by, but which was always mixed with anger and disappointment, wondering how he could possibly be so disloyal, so stupid, and still be alive. When there was no more space on his arms, he began to cut on his hip and down his thigh. He was never more thankful than then that he had a job that required nearly every inch of his body to be covered.

And then they'd made up. Harvey had forgiven him, had taken him back, and everything had gone back to normal.

At least, it was supposed to.

It was the second day after Harvey had forgiven him, when they were discussing a case and he had said something and Harvey had made an angry critique in return. The two had talked heatedly for a few minutes, before finally agreeing on the best plan of action for their client. It was inconsequential; it was something that every lawyer – heck, every person – did. He and Harvey had had thousands of them in the past; heck, it was basically part of the job description. It was just an argument.

But it wasn't.

That night Mike returned home, at first unable to understand why he was so upset and bothered, but then remembering Harvey's words and wishing that he could just crawl into a hole and die. Before he'd even taken his jacket off he found himself walking into the kitchen and grabbing the serrated knife from its holder, and before he knew what was happening, two neat marks had been cut into his wrist. At first he was upset, because this wasn't supposed to happen, this sort of thing was supposed to stop now that he and Harvey had made up. But as he saw the healed skin below, and all the difficult memories of the day returned, he found himself cutting in three more lines before setting the knife down and leaning back with a sigh. Eventually he'd get some rags and stop the bleeding, but for now he'd simply enjoy it.

It didn't stop. As each day passed, whenever Harvey, or Louis, or Jessica, or anyone else said something to him that made him feel terrible, or inspire a slew of self-loathing and self-hateful words to scream through his mind, he would come home and pick up his knife, and he'd feel good. He began to look forward to it; it became the one thing in his entire day that he could have for himself, that would always fix all his mistakes, all his stupid decisions, and leave him feeling that maybe, just maybe, he could get through this life after all.

It became routine. It became normal. And because he wore a suit all the time, he didn't have to worry about covering anything up – so he didn't.

Which is why six months later, when Harvey grabbed him forcefully by the arm during an argument as he tried to leave his office, he was left totally unprepared for what happened after.

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