Originally written for a prompt on the livejournal Hetalia kink meme. See profile for links to prompt and original fill.
There's darkness inside me.
Everyone says I'm small and innocent and weak, but there's darkness in me. I've felt it, curling in the pit of my stomach, twisting in my mind like a black serpent.
No, not black. Pale. Pale, with burning violet eyes. He's infected me. His every touch, his every word, his smile and his eyes and his madness have eaten into me until I wonder if I can ever get him out.
I feel the darkness mostly at night. I'm alone, no one else in the house with me. I'm not there, but the darkness is, and the moon is hidden. Everything's shadows except for the pale snake of madness. It hurts, squeezing my brain, eating me up from the inside.
There's a strangled, dying-animal noise, and I know it's me. I'm terrified of the darkness and the snake, and I know of only one way to make them leave me be, just for a night. Just some peace until morning.
There's darkness all around me as I crawl across the bed – why is it so big, it's like a sea of blankets, where's the edge – and find the nightstand with a sob or a whimper or both. I can never identify the sounds I make. My hands are sweaty, and the handle is slippery, but I somehow paw the drawer open.
Pathetic weak little vessel of darkness.
The drawer is empty but for one thing- a dagger. It's old, but still gleams even in the faint light of the stars.
Not here. Not where there will be bloodstains to explain away. My brothers will visit and see and wonder, and they can't know.
I climb out of bed. I'm not safer now that I'm armed. I creep to the bathroom like a criminal, step inside without turning on the light.
My clothing is too big, and it falls off me easily, lying in a pool on the floor. The tiny window in the wall lets in starlight, just enough to see faint shapes.
Draw aside the curtain.
Step into the tub.
Sit down.
The tub is cold, but I barely feel the chill. I'm always shaking; a little cold won't make it worse.
I sit back, back against the side of the tub. The point of the dagger rests against my upper arm. I push it forward, draw it back. Saw at my own flesh.
I keep the dagger sharp, and it's a single line of fire, neat and deep. The blood wells up and out, sliding across my skin, so warm, so smooth, life itself.
No, not life. The warmth, the silk, it's all a lie. Blood is raging, poisonous, it carries the darkness in it.
Darkness has to be finite. It has to be. If I just spill enough, if I bleed out enough darkness, the serpent will finally leave me be. My nightmares will go away. They'll go away again and stay away, if I can just bleed.
I cut again, lower. Higher. On my legs. I switch hands and slice my other arm. Arms, thighs, calves, wrists, stomach, no one will see. No one will care. I'm too weak to bother with. There's just little me and the darkness that's invisible to everyone else, and no one will see, or care if they saw.
The blood begins to collect in the tub, warm and sticky, the darkness clinging to me. I set the dagger gently on the floor and close my eyes. If I concentrate, I can feel the darkness drain from me, drop by bitter metallic drop.
Finally, a safer darkness claims me, and the next time I open my eyes, it's morning.
The tub is coated in half-dry and crusted blood. I climb to my feet, stiff and sore from sleeping that way. The cuts are all scabbed over. They ache, but I can ignore them. I have to.
I wash the tub until there's no blood left, then wash myself before dressing. I make my bed and straighten the room before going downstairs to make breakfast. The darkness curls in my stomach and makes it hard to eat, but I manage. I have to be prepared for the day. My duties are hard and exhausting, and there's no one else to do them for me.
The serpent coils in my mind, violet eyes dimmed. He's infected me, but I'm perfecting the cure. Someday, I'll bleed the last of it out.
The sun is shining. I debate finding time to visit my brothers.
Let the serpent sleep- I have work to do.