Kyouya Ootori draws lines on his arms.
Thin, straight, even lines, neatly spaced along both forearms, with just enough flesh between them so you could count the lines if you chose, but doing so would be a difficult task.
Kyouya knows how many lines there are.
A line for every time his father hit him.
A line for every time he wasn't good enough.
A line for every time he was called a discrace, a failure, worthless.
A line for every time his father berated and reproached him to the point of tears that he fought with every fibre of his being to keep hidden because emotions are wrong and shameful and weak and weakness is unforgivable.
There are so many, many lines, some spaced more closely than others because he ran out of room and added more lines neatly placed between the existing ones, and then ran out again.
Someday, Kyouya thinks, he will draw a strike through all these tally marks, two thin, straight, even lines from elbow to wrist.
And that time, he won't stop the bleeding.