Chapter 1 - What is grasped

Warning: This includes self-harm and vulgar thoughts. Proceed at your own accord.

- Summary -

He trusts the "fact" that those burning eyes tell the truth since he couldn't deny it. And despite the freedom of self-harm, nothing prevented his succumbing to the feeling of having- owning nothing. He was limited on options. He didn't choose this. He wasn't willing to feel it at all. He wasn't prepared to feel insecure. He never wanted to be so utterly ashamed…

Blue eyes towered over the limb, watching the scene intensively, as if focused solely on the task at hand, all doing so with blurred vision.

There was only the sound of skin tearing, opening and revealing itself to possible infections. This resulted in a certain and quite familiar substance of dark color spewing itself everywhere, creating countless droplets of splattering sounds falling onto the concrete floor.

The person responsible paid no mind to the burning pain, evidently concentrated on his own sense of obligation.

Dig farther

He bit his lip in frustration, eyes lowering into a frown. He wasn't in the least bit satisfied with what the so-called "pathetic" and salient, steel tool provided him with. Whether it ranged from long, rigid strokes or deep and brief, infatuated jabs, they just weren't enough.

This supposed distraction from the primary pain, the other pain wasn't turning out as well as he wished for it to be. It never did. He tried all types of mechanisms; in what precedent, which opportunity, region, what implement to do it with, time, discernment and even miscellaneous concepts entirely (such as cleaning, writing and reading), but none seemed to be as sufficient of an answer to work. Although, in this case, considering this method had some sort of pursuance better than others, he continued to the routine without fear.

Even so, nothing changed how much it was ineffective rather than not.

More

A soft sob escaped him. He still felt it.

Those piercing eyes doing just that- piercing into him far worse and life-threatening than what he willed his actions to do. He felt so exposed, far too vulnerable as he listened to those very eyes that spoke an unspoken voice, a verifiable truth that didn't modify anything- it was loud enough to decipher, boisterous enough to perorate him.

"You worthless bitch"

The voice spat in a contemptuous manner, and no matter how many times it recapitulated the same line, instead of him adequately ignoring it, it gradually hurt him more and more.

The tones faltered into many. It ranged from female, male, child, adult, mature, and immature, but didn't matter. He heard it all. Every single one of those intonations screaming mayhem, showering with havoc as they watched him squirm and plead the world for him to shrink, no matter how inconspicuously ironic that was, it stood its ground.

But the world seemed to fight against him.

"You're a whore, a good for nothing."

Despite his deepest, aspiring wishes, how could he fight back? How many times was it going to tell him these allegations without any of his consent? How much longer will those heart-wrenching glares last- how much longer will he himself last? Their persistence drained him to the last drop, and yet they kept going and going and going. Why must they continue their endless nagging onto him when he already perceived and recognized the reality all too well? Why constantly reiterate when he already knew the extent of his self-worth? Why must they all keep their indefatigable blabbering going when it almost seemed pointless?

He just wanted an answer as to why, why must everyone yearn to break him and his lasting confidence?

"Yer' disgustin'"

What did he have to do, what exactly did it take for him to just up and walk away? What could he do to fend against- to avoid those glacial, yet sweltering hands from shoving him inside this pit of congregating tribulation. It wasn't one of darkness, quite the opposite as saturation of all colors looked to as swarm around him, but it was also completely empty. It was chaos within, an eternal loop of fears, failures and his hideous reflections. It was lonely.

He should've understood more than anyone what and how he was, including how he appeared (seeing as mirrors did an efficient job at that), so why must it remind him?

He was both worn and exasperated at how much and how long he had to maintain his stare towards that huge, glass door that just refused to open.

What did it take to look away…?!

"You're despicable"

I know, so why won't it quit its chattering?!

"Better to have an enemy slap you on the face than a traitor who stabs in the back"

Stop it!

"Enemies are better than fake friends"

Shut your bloody mouth!

"You're far inferior to the worthlessness of the men in the world, and you must understand the poor shape this place is in"

Is there a need to explain? I'm not thinking otherwise!

"Any similarity between you and a human is purely coincidental."

I understand the magnitude!

"You're just... pediculus"

I won't deny it!

"I envy everyone you've never met"

I get it already…!

"To be yourself? What utter nonsense"

Leave me alone...

"You're the exact antonym for pleasant"

Why won't it quit…?!

"Only a self-destructive fool would consider your love an option"

Please, fall silent…

"'Important' my ass"

Just… stop…

"Yer' not beautiful"

Why must it wish to drain my lasting perseverance….?

"Never were, never will be"

I'm sorry…..

"You're hideous"

Believe me… I know.

Why won't it reason with him? Or was it him himself who refused to?

The process he was currently using proved his efforts. The metal ends that dug into his flesh brought a feeling- despite being so brief- of relief that brushed across his person.

The fact stood that with each mar that he dragged across his skin, a long-lasting scar would inevitably appear, and there wasn't a bit of regret lacing within his face. Those harsh cuts could be established and/or considered as a coat- no- a blanket, one that could be acted along the lines of protection against the ugliness he held. He'd be willing to drown his body in those very scars if it meant hiding his physique, especially since it could be described as nothing less but a horrendous monstrosity. A toxic barbarian that causes nothing but catastrophe and calamity that escapes from every direction; out and inside, looks and nature.

Plus, the course went as far as to make him feel free, even if it was short-lasting and below a second. All the regret, guilt, and sorrow that constantly overpowered and overwhelmed him would just momentarily cease and alter as if he had just paid a small debt at that abrupt moment. Those rather painless marks were permanent and, no less caused by him- would remind him of his grief, the responsibility he failed to fulfill, the very ones that crushed him into oblivion. They would forever be implanted into those streaks that, too, stayed on him until his last breaths. That reasoning brought him to the conclusion that this method he used could repay, if it's just a little bit, for all the harm he's done.

Even so, the very thought about never being able to escape the dread filled him both with grief and joy. Sure, he felt as though payment was a possibility, but it also pained him that he'll never manage to witness and visualize the wonderful colors others could. It hurt knowing he'd never get another chance at the pure exhilaration of being surrounded by those he loved and cared about, just wishing for it to have never happened in the first place.

There was also the fact that he had to resort in such tactics, that very point screamed to everyone and everything how pathetic he truly was. It told how remarkably incapable and substantial his efforts were, that it wasn't nearly significant of a struggle to be called support for all his expanded accountability. Was he just not doing enough? Did he simply not have an efficient amount of his previous integrity, confidence, and/or durability to his stability? Were all his efforts put to waste?

"Of course it was"

The voice spoke in a sort of mocking humor, having a great amount of amusement at the moment.

The words were something he couldn't bring himself to contradict. He couldn't influence nor' persuade himself to consider the thought of it being wrong and/or a blunder. He regarded the equivalence of his self-worth as nothing, he concluded that he himself was nothing. Now he must ask, how does the result of his exsertion differ?

Simple. It didn't.

So, in the end, should he even bother?

"Yes"

It answered, a hissing sound indicating anger now suffused in the voice this time around.

"This is exactly what you owe- what you deserve. You shall never compensate for everything, but you will commit to bestowing. With each time that you fail on that task, it will eradicate you inside, out. That is your punishment."

Silence appeared to insinuate towards an echo.

The hypothesis those eyes tried to puncture into him sounded like such unmitigated nonsense, but, right now, he lost what little rationality his mentality had formerly supplied him with. With anything that glare "said" brought up nothing but the "sincere truth" to him and he truly believed that to be the case. Every verdict it spoke sounded legitimate- and it hurt. He was well aware of how pessimistic and foolish it was, but elucidating the logic between the two arguments wasn't something he was currently capable of. That being said, it left what was displayed before him to choose from, and that just happened to be an unreasonable choice to unknowingly decide on. In short, the trust he put on this self-hatred wasn't intentional, it wasn't something he could entirely blame himself for, but then that's where this hatred intrudes; he forces and believes himself of accusatory.

"You deserve to burn. You deserve nothing less of failure. But most of all, you deserve nothing."

The sense of feeling those various scowls intensifying its gaze onto his figure was dreadful.

The distraction of his cuts couldn't prevent them, it didn't have the endurance to counteract the stupidity of the impudent absurdity for long.

The pain in his flesh didn't have the power to convince its owner it wasn't true, that it shouldn't even be considered. That he did deserve something.

It couldn't assure that everything was in his head.

"You are entitled to insignificant void"

It was all fake, right?

"To nonentity"

Yes? … No…?

"Immaterial worthlessness"

Which of the two was it?

"You don't justify for anything."

The former?

"You lay claim to such trifle extinction"

The latter?

"You shall gain nothing less of nullified vacuity"

Neither?

"You get comeuppance towards absolute trivia"

Both?

"You warrant nothing at all"

What did it matter? They were right. Those burning eyes didn't lie. They couldn't be- weren't wrong. They knew the evident truth.

I deserve nothing.