Scars
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Category: Digimon
Summary: A Chosen Child deals with their problems in a harmful way, the past haunting them. How will they react when they meet the most unexpected person who is so similar to them? Slightly AU.
A/N: I have a nasty tendency to love Angst. Lovely isn't it? I always thought about doing a cutting story a few times, but never knew who exactly to base it on. Well, here is one of the mangled fruits of my morbid imagination.
If you look at my arms, unhidden with long sleeves, you would see a latticework of scars. Ugly, aren't they? Broad scars, fine scars, long scars, short scars, the variety is endless. Some are faint and can be barely seen. Some are darker, and fresher. You think me insane? Perhaps I am. No one can understand me, no one knows the pain I feel.
I am unclean, full of darkness. Why do I deserve a second chance? All I deserve is death. Death, I crave it, to be swallowed in meaningless oblivion forever, not having any worries. But something draws me, and that is why I inflict this upon myself
The knife is but a silver flash as it draws over my long, pale arm. I watch, fascinated by the startlingly crimson blood as it wells up. All of the pain, all of the anguishes, all of my impurities, now dripping out in the long, narrow river of red on my arm. Putting the knife down, I then clean up the counter and my hand strokes up the long wound on my arm. My fingers dripping with blood, I then lick it off, the still warm liquid salty and bitter on my tongue.
The others do not know, or would they even care if they knew? My family wouldn't care about the cutting, I just know it somewhere and I accept it. My parents promised to be better but it isn't enough. I deserve this, and far more. For my only destiny is darkness.
As the group meets, I slip away, razor in my pocket. I take it out as I open the bathroom door. Then I crash into the most unexpected person, who hides something behind her back upon seeing me.
What are you doing? I ask.
Nothing, she stammers and I see a splash of blood and a scarlet stained blade by the sink.
You're a-a- a cutter? My own voice is clumsy with surprise and disbelief.
What about it? Her voice is slightly shrill and harsh.
I never imagined…
Hardly anyone does… Her eyes stare hard at the floor.
I'm a cutter too. I set down the blade on the sick. Let me see your arms.
She reluctantly does so and I feel sickened on seeing her long, fair arms covered with masses of scars, many fresh. How could she do this to herself? I wonder. But a voice whispers in my mind, But you do it to yourself all the time. Emotions swirl in my mind, grief, sorrow, sympathy… and a tiny flash of hope and kinship. Here was one who knew similarly what I go through.
We worry about you, she says, voice slightly trembling. You seem to distance yourself all the time.
I don't deserve to be with you. I turn away and pick up the razor.
Her hand stops mine. It doesn't matter, leave the past be, you cannot dwell on it forever.
Why are you doing this? I counter swiftly.
She looks at me, sorrowful. Because I was raped. Her voice is flat and dead.
Why didn't you tell anyone? I demand, suddenly fiercely angry.
He threatened to kill my family and to kill me if I ever told anyone who did it. She turns away from me.
I turn her to face me. We have to bring this person to justice. It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault… the words echo in my mind, making the guilt easier to bear with. My own words, soothing me.
No one blames you for what you did, leave it in the past. You've changed; you are a far better person than that. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Please, we all can help you, Ken.
Grateful tears pour from my eyes, trickling down my cheeks, as I feel oddly relieved by the gesture. If only we can help you back, Miyako…
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Category: Digimon
Summary: A Chosen Child deals with their problems in a harmful way, the past haunting them. How will they react when they meet the most unexpected person who is so similar to them? Slightly AU.
A/N: I have a nasty tendency to love Angst. Lovely isn't it? I always thought about doing a cutting story a few times, but never knew who exactly to base it on. Well, here is one of the mangled fruits of my morbid imagination.
If you look at my arms, unhidden with long sleeves, you would see a latticework of scars. Ugly, aren't they? Broad scars, fine scars, long scars, short scars, the variety is endless. Some are faint and can be barely seen. Some are darker, and fresher. You think me insane? Perhaps I am. No one can understand me, no one knows the pain I feel.
I am unclean, full of darkness. Why do I deserve a second chance? All I deserve is death. Death, I crave it, to be swallowed in meaningless oblivion forever, not having any worries. But something draws me, and that is why I inflict this upon myself
The knife is but a silver flash as it draws over my long, pale arm. I watch, fascinated by the startlingly crimson blood as it wells up. All of the pain, all of the anguishes, all of my impurities, now dripping out in the long, narrow river of red on my arm. Putting the knife down, I then clean up the counter and my hand strokes up the long wound on my arm. My fingers dripping with blood, I then lick it off, the still warm liquid salty and bitter on my tongue.
The others do not know, or would they even care if they knew? My family wouldn't care about the cutting, I just know it somewhere and I accept it. My parents promised to be better but it isn't enough. I deserve this, and far more. For my only destiny is darkness.
As the group meets, I slip away, razor in my pocket. I take it out as I open the bathroom door. Then I crash into the most unexpected person, who hides something behind her back upon seeing me.
What are you doing? I ask.
Nothing, she stammers and I see a splash of blood and a scarlet stained blade by the sink.
You're a-a- a cutter? My own voice is clumsy with surprise and disbelief.
What about it? Her voice is slightly shrill and harsh.
I never imagined…
Hardly anyone does… Her eyes stare hard at the floor.
I'm a cutter too. I set down the blade on the sick. Let me see your arms.
She reluctantly does so and I feel sickened on seeing her long, fair arms covered with masses of scars, many fresh. How could she do this to herself? I wonder. But a voice whispers in my mind, But you do it to yourself all the time. Emotions swirl in my mind, grief, sorrow, sympathy… and a tiny flash of hope and kinship. Here was one who knew similarly what I go through.
We worry about you, she says, voice slightly trembling. You seem to distance yourself all the time.
I don't deserve to be with you. I turn away and pick up the razor.
Her hand stops mine. It doesn't matter, leave the past be, you cannot dwell on it forever.
Why are you doing this? I counter swiftly.
She looks at me, sorrowful. Because I was raped. Her voice is flat and dead.
Why didn't you tell anyone? I demand, suddenly fiercely angry.
He threatened to kill my family and to kill me if I ever told anyone who did it. She turns away from me.
I turn her to face me. We have to bring this person to justice. It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't your fault… the words echo in my mind, making the guilt easier to bear with. My own words, soothing me.
No one blames you for what you did, leave it in the past. You've changed; you are a far better person than that. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Please, we all can help you, Ken.
Grateful tears pour from my eyes, trickling down my cheeks, as I feel oddly relieved by the gesture. If only we can help you back, Miyako…