Stiles sat in his bath tub. The shower was running, his music playing loudly, and he sat there with the water hitting him. His hands were lazily laying by his sides. He forgot how long he was in there for. Leisurely blinking, he thought about it. Long enough for the water to cool slightly. Estimating about 30-45 minutes then. Getting an idea, Stiles tilted his head and considered the idea. He leaned forward slowly and held the handle labeled 'C'. He held it for a moment, then with a sudden movement he turned the cold water off all together. Pushing off the wall he returned to his previous position. As the hot water pelted his face, and the steam started to block his vision, he winced. The heat was severe enough, sure, but all he could think about was that it didn't hurt enough. It wasn't adequate for what he needed. He needed to make sure it was him. Stiles. Doing this to himself. Not some stranger in his mind.
He just wanted to make sure he was still there, still in control. He curled his knees into his chest and held them there. His head felt like it was going to explode. Slowly the heat was turning his skin pink. His legs started to get restless. Fingers tapping his arm impatiently, biting the inside of his lips, all he thought was, 'be me. Please be me. No one else. Just me. Please.' Almost like a mantra in his mind. Over and over that one thought was rolling around. He started to breathe heavy. He could feel every pulse in his head, bashing against his skull. He started to dig his finger nails into his arms. Feeling a slight bit of pain snapped him out. But only for a moment. Clenching his teeth together, Stiles started to rock back and forth until a scream escaped his lungs. With a sudden burst of movement, Stiles lunged forwards and turned the water off completely.
Blinking the water away from his eyes he sat there. Feeling completely useless, he laid his head back. He sat like this for about another 45 minutes. At some point he was jerked out of his daze. He tried to move his legs to get up, but he couldn't. Immediately, his breath quickened. Practically panting, Stiles started to clench his teeth together. Come on, he thought, move. God please move. Tears were threatening to pour over his eyes. He closed his eyes tights, screaming internally. Suddenly the curtain was pulled back. Stiles glanced up, without being able to move his neck, and terror filled his entire body. Staring maliciously back down at him, was him. As the imposter started to lunge towards him, Stiles let out an Earth shattering scream. He tried harder than he'd ever tried before to get away from this imposter, but nothing was working.
With a jerk Stiles woke up in his bed. Sweat covering his body, throat soar, and relieved. It was just a dream. That was all. Just a dream. He started to calm down, slightly. Stiles started to recall those horrific memories of when he watched himself do such hideous things, unable to stop himself. Controlled by another. He had stayed quiet for so long. Forced into a prison within his own mind for longer than Stiles cared to think about. And he was mad. He was furious that he allowed someone to hurt him as much as the nogitsune did. He had gotten beaten up before, to make Scott mad, but he had taken it. It wasn't as bad as people thought. A few punches here and there with a couple kicks thrown in. It was nothing compared to the pain of being forced to share your mind with a complete psychopath. Heartrate still high, Stiles could feel the attack coming on. Usually he'd try to call someone to talk him out of it, or to calm him down, but he refused this time. He had convinced everyone that he was fine.
Stiles frantically kicked the sheets away from his body, relieved that he had control over his limbs again. But that was no longer his concern. Now the burning in his lungs had him panicked. He couldn't breathe. His face was bright red, and his chest felt like giving up. He gripped at his chest, trying to tear an opening or something. His lanky limbs were flailing, trying to get himself out of bed. Clumsily, he fell out of the bed and landed on the floor. On all fours, Stiles started to crawl to his dresser. Pulling himself into a standing position, Stiles grabbed whatever he could and started throwing things. It didn't matter to him what it was, he just needed to let go of some of his anger.
He grabbed the plate that was left there, food still intact, and threw it against the other wall. Tears were now flowing down his face, sweat beading up on his forehead. He grabbed the clothes, the notebooks, his book bag, and the photo frame. Yelling at nothing, he threw everything. He didn't care about the mess. He didn't care about the noise. He needed this. It wasn't until the glass shattered against the wall that snapped Stiles out of this frenzy. Panting, Stiles tried to hold it all together. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Blinking fast, and biting the inside of his mouth, Stiles continued to breathe heavy. With a cry, Stiles finally fell to his knees.
He finally let everything out. Tears were free falling down his face. The pain in his head was unbearable, and his chest was almost worse. Slowly, he started to calm back down. His heartrate was slowing down, and the tears were nearly dried up. Stile remained on the floor for a long time. Simply holding his hand over his chest. Sometime later, he finally sat up. Pain rushed to the front of his skull. Stiles winced, but the real pain came when he looked around his room. It was an absolute mess. Rolling his eyes, he flipped so that he could crawl over to the majority of the mess. The glass. While stile started to pick up the pieces, a shard of glass sliced through the skin of his fingers. Gasping, Stiles quickly withdrew his hand. Looking down at his hand, he saw the gash that he created. The blood slowly started to pool up on his finger. This had Stiles locked in a trance. The shock of red against the pale skin had him memorized. Grabbing at the finger, Stiles forced more blood out. It wasn't much, but it dripped a couple times.
Following the drips, Stiles laid his eyes on the offending shard of glass. It was a larger piece from the frame that he had thrown. It laid on the ground so innocently, splattered with Stiles' blood. Stile allowed his breath to quicken as he leaned down to pick up the glass. He had heard of this phenomena. Never gave it much credit though. Figured if someone was that desperate to hurt themselves they should just end it already. But, looking back at the gash on his hand, and back to the glass, he realized it wasn't about that at all. It was about control. He could control the amount of pain he had to put up with. No longer would the pain be forced upon him from other people. It would be his to maintain. Stiles gave up the fight to clean up his destruction, he had only one thought. He fell back on his knees, staring at the glass.
It looked so elegant. So simple. How can something like this hurt? It wasn't like he was suicidal. No, Stiles knew better than that. This was about release. He no longer felt so fidgety. In fact, he can't remember the last time he felt this calm. He laughed quietly to himself at that thought. Of all the things he read about calming down anxiety attacks, he never foresaw self-harm as that perfect outlet. Reality sat in. He looked back at his bleeding hand. It had already stopped. Stiles felt a twinge of sadness at that thought. He looked down at his covered arm. That is where people do it right? Stiles pulled up his left sleeve slowly. His heartrate starting to climb slowly, but in a good way. He was slightly worried about his readiness to do this. There was something else he felt, what was it? Guilt? Stiles closed his eyes and pressed his palm into his forehead. Was he really going to do this? Sniffing, Stiles put his arm back down. Yes.
Turning the glass in his hand, he looked and felt around for the sharpest point. Finding the ideal part, he started looking for a canvas. Swallowing, stiles positioned the glass against his wrist. He fought for breath, and then reconsidered. Lifting the glass, he thought about the repercussions. What is someone found out? Would he want them to know? Forcing himself to tell someone that he isn't okay? No, he would never want to face those looks of disappointment, or even worse, pity. Shaking his head, he bit at his lips. Where else that won't be seen so easily? Laying his arm back down, he thought of the perfect place. Deciding to give in to the situation, Stiles ran the blade over the pale flesh of his arm. All the way up to the elbow, then back down a couple inches.
Perfect. He wore so many long sleeve shirts, no one would ever see this. Plus, it's fall out. No one in their right mind would wear short sleeves at this time of year anyway. Even if he got hot, he could roll up his sleeves far enough without letting people discover his secret. Excitement now boiled up inside Stiles. Licking his lips, Stiles prepared for the first movement. He rested the glass against his skin, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in. As he exhaled he jerked the glass across his arm. Pain blossomed over his arm, making him gasp slightly. Stiles let his head fall back slightly, closing his eyes. Looking back down, he looked at his handiwork. It was small, maybe two inches long, and glowing red. He watched as the small line turned into small balls of blood. Infatuated, Stiles put his thumb and finger on either side of the cut. Then, breathing in, he pressed down and out. Forcing it open just a bit more. This brought on a new found pain that Stiles enjoyed.
Smiling, he looked back at the glass. He brought it back to his arm, this is my doing. This time, with more confidence, he pulled it against his skin with a little more pressure. Perfectly parallel to the other mark, he lined it up again. ME. He thought. I am doing this, no one else. I am in control. He can no longer hurt me, I am. With each pull against his skin he felt adrenalin rush through his body. After about seven pulls, Stiles had to rest. He had gotten too caught up in what he was doing. With shagged breath, he looked at the hand holding the glass and dropped it. Turning his hand over he had small bits of blood there. Breathing heavy, he looked over to his now dripping arm. Using the same method he had earlier, he pushed them all open just a bit more. He had to bite his lip to prevent himself from screaming out. It hurt so much, but in such a good way. He watched the blood pool up and drip down the sides of his arm. He ran his thumb over the new gashes in his arm, smearing the blood around.
He'd bled before, but never like this. Never on purpose. He didn't feel anxious, or scared, or worried. He felt calm. Stile relaxed his shoulders and rolled his head back. Taking in the pain, and the pleasure mixed in along with it. He sat there for a while. Rolling his head back to the self-created wounds, Stiles noted how dome were still leaking, while others had already clotted up. Suddenly he felt ashamed. He didn't know why, but he felt like he had done something wrong. With shaking hands, he tried to stand up. How long had he been sitting in that position? Everything hurt, he pushed himself into a standing position and started towards the bathroom. Pain exploded once again in his arm. Gasping, Stiles bent it and cradled it against his chest. Looking down at it, he could he that he had reopened some of the cuts.
He was slightly mesmerized by the new bright red mixing with the older darker red. Snapping himself out of another trance, he rushed towards the bathroom, he opened the cupboard. Finding some bandages, he laid it out. Looking at his arm once more, he found that blood had gotten on his shirt. Quickly, he yanked it off and threw it in the cabinet under the sink. He started to clean up his new wounds and wrapped them up. Finally happy with the progress, he placed both hands on the edge of the sink. Lifting his head, he looked at his reflection. He hated what he saw. A skinny nobody with pale skin. Now there had been a new description added to him. What would people say if they found out? Would they call him emo? He couldn't be though. He was fine most of the time. Wasn't he? Did he really just start to believe his own lies?
There was no way he was a 'cutter'. The thought made him shiver. This was just a one-time thing. Taking in deep breaths, Stiles talked himself out of a panic. He felt his heartrate quicken, and subconsciously he placed a hand over his bandage and squeezed tightly. This made his wound seep through the bandages. The pain centered him though, calmed him. But it wasn't going to happen again. Quietly, Stiles opened the door, making sure his dad still wasn't home. He walked over to his bedroom and quickly found a new shirt to put on. He long sleeves covered the bandage. Looking back into a mirror he could pretend that nothing happened. And that is precisely what he did. Looking around his room he started to clean up. After about ten minutes you could hardly tell that anything had been out of place.
Walking across his room, Stiles stepped on something sharp. Jumping back, he looked down to see what it was. There, sitting on the floor, splashed in his blood, was the piece of glass. Stile bent down to pick it up and walked towards the trash can. Pausing, he looked back at it, then up at his covered arm. Maybe he should hang on to this. Just as a reminder. A reminder that he is in control now, no one else. Taking it into the bathroom, he washed it off. Wrapping it up in some spare gauze, Stiles brought it back into his room. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he held it closely. He should throw it away. Avoid the temptation. He just couldn't handle the thought. Hastily, he opened his side table's drawer dropped the glass inside and shut the drawer back. Stiles laid back onto his bed. Feeling calmer than he had in months. Stiles couldn't believe he hadn't tried this sooner. He closed his eyes. Sleep fell over him quicker than ever. He couldn't remember the last time he slept this well. Things were looking up for Stiles. There was still a slight chill in the air if Stiles thought about it too hard. How long could he keep this up? Stiles decided not to dwell on this thought. Rather on the obvious pleasure he felt. Things were finally going to get better. He could tell.