A/N: Just a one shot that has been swimming around in my head for a couple of days. It's a little darker than what actually happens in Scandal but le muse has struck again. Involves self-harm, warning for triggers.
The first time it happened, it was an accident I was in the shower and the razor blade fell down from the soap rack. It didn't mean to happen, but as the blade scaped and the cut formed, I watched the blood pool around the wound, I felt a sense of calm I hadn't felt since before we moved to DC, before Fitz became President, and I knew that he still loved me, when I didn't feel like I was competing with another women for the affection from my husband.
The second time it happened, was much less an accident than the first time. I was stressed. The children didn't want to come back from school and visit because they were nervous to be around their father. That man was going to be the death of me, but I loved him, loved him with all of my heart. That was why it was so hard for me to drag the blade across my skin, because I was afraid of what he would do to me if he found out. I was not afraid of my husband, quite the opposite, what I was afraid of is what he would think of me. What he would think of this.
Because I didn't know how to explain it, why it felt good for me to see the blood pool out of the cuts, like there was this heavy weight that was lifted off my shoulders. Like I could breathe again. That's the hard part; there wasn't any technical reason why I should feel – euphoric – about this. I was the First Lady of the United States of America, I had three beautiful children, and I didn't have to face the problems that many of the people in our society had. But they were loved.
Is it selfish that I want love of all things in the world? I just want my husband to love me! I want to be swept of my feet – just like when we first met, to dance under the moonlight, to act like giggling teenagers, for Fitz and myself to fall in love all over again.
Instead I press the blade deeper to my skin, watching silently as I draw it across my thigh time and time again, feeling a sense of relief every time.
The next time is when I issue Fitz with the ultimatum, giving him 36 hours to tell me the he regrets the choices that he has made in his life, that he wants to commit himself to his wife and to our children. Part of me knows, that deep down that it isn't going to happen.
I feel as if I am already setting myself up for failure, that I am going to be the women that looses her husband because she doesn't keep him interested enough. That giving him the Presidency and three children isn't everything that he needs. But I know that he wants love, but I don't think that it is my love that he wants. He wants Olivia Pope's love, and probably to be the father to her children as well.
Before I knew what was happening, I am sitting in the bathroom, getting the razor out of my toilet bag, and drawing it in a slow and steady line across my skin. Time and time again, watching as I did before the dark red blood rise to the surface I notice the scars from the previous times, just faded pink lines now that were once angry and red. These scars represent some of the times I was feeling at my lowest, when I feel like I couldn't cope. I watch the fallout that my quick thinking has done; my thighs are covered with both fresh and old wounds alike.
The next time I think about what I am doing before I do it. How hard the scars are getting to cover up. I will have to wait for them to fade before I could even show my legs without being self-conscious. I know that this isn't a healthy way to deal with my problems, and I am very much aware of this as watch my hand draw the blade down my thigh.
I realise that this needs to stop.
The next time it doesn't happen. I went to the bathroom, having every intention to cut myself again. But I realised that there was nothing to be gained from this, it wouldn't help me. There was no need to live in the fake euphoric cloud, when I found that I could create my own happiness.
But I realise that these are my battle wounds, that they are my sign that I have lived and conquered life. I don't need to prove myself to anyone, nor do I need anyone to be happy. I have all that I need and all that I want. I am loved.
A/N: Too anyone out there who is struggling with self-harm, realise that you are loved. After all self-harm is more common that what everyone thinks that it is.