This is a missing scene for my story, "What If". Since I love that thing so frickin much, and I wanted to give Ross a chance, I decided to write this. It was actually supposed to be in "What If", but I didn't know where to put it.
I should really write more angst. It makes me happy.
:listens to Foo Fighters:
between the handshake and the fuck
Totally inspiring me.
Don't own them one bit. :cries:
To Landon.
"Damn the Black Heart"
Pain.
That's what it was.
That's what he wanted to rid himself of.
It wasn't a dull, throbbing pain; nor was it a blinding, piercing, screaming pain. It was a pain that couldn't choose what it wanted to be; one that would hide in the very darkest corners of his soul for the longest time, giving him a little leeway, until the climatic moment in which he felt happy, joyful, appreciative for his life, then it would strike; plunge itself into his heart and drag him into a state of depression so low he had to do something about it.
His feet padded across the room, his apartment silent, as though it knew what was about to happen. He passed the large window, but did not glace out into the brightly-lit city of New York he had thought he'd known so well. Slipping into the bathroom, he locked the door and walked over to his chipped sink, picking up the razor he used to shave his face.
Badpainbadpainbadpain…
He flinched involuntarily, and he collapsed onto the floor next to the bathtub, shaking as the pain began to spread like poison.
Goodpaingoodpaingoodpain need good pain…
Slowly, he got up slightly, kneeling. A ray of moonlight poked through the limp curtain that hung over the window, watching him.
Leave me alone…
His left arm twitched as he raised it over the tub, the naked wrist pointing up, exposed to the world's evils. The ray of light seemed to dim slightly, as though something had covered its eyes, protecting it. The man's right hand gripped the razor delicately, like an artist holding his paintbrush. Slowly, ever slowly, always carefully, as though he were afraid that one false move could cause the whole process to go wrong, he pressed the blade against the skin of his left forearm.
He smiled.
Goodpaingoodpaingoodpain…
Pain cursed through his body and he shook, shook like he never had before, but it felt good, felt wonderful, this new pain was such a relief from the other kind; this pain was dependable, he knew where it came from, why it was there, when it would strike.
He could live with this pain; he could live with it forever. It drowned out his other pain, until he was forced to focus only on the blood that oozed out of the cut.
He watched as it dripped into the stained tub, flowed down into the drain, and disappeared, as though it had never been. The cut was not that deep, and he felt disappointed with himself that he did not have the will to press harder, farther. Wasn't he strong enough to handle that? Suppose he moved the razor forward two, no, three inches, where it would lay across his bare wrist, waiting to slice through.
He was strong.
He could handle that; he could fight off that pain, just like he'd fought off all the rest. And if he couldn't, would death be so bad?
The blade was raised ever-so-slightly off the skin he'd cut so many times before; for a moment, it hovered over his wrist, waiting to dive into the exposed skin; it seemed to writhe with excitement- could this be the day, the day he and the razor became one, had one goal; to prove to the world, to prove to them, that he was stronger than anyone else? His lip curled up with joy at imagining them realizing that he was not the one who had made mistakes, he was not the one who had given up when he shouldn't have, for he could endure the greatest pain there was. And quite simply, anyone who could bear that sort of pain could not have made mistakes.
And even if he had made mistakes, that had been the old him. But the old him was weak, pointless, inferior; he had barely existed before the razor, before the wonderfully goodpain. The new him, the stronger, better, wiser him did not make mistakes, because he was stronger than anyone else.
The razor clattered to the bottom of the tub, and Ross let out a choked sob.
He was just as weak as he had been so long ago.
No no no no no no no…
He wanted it, wanted it so terribly bad, but yet he could not do it. Why couldn't he end it? Why must be still be so pathetic?
His breath came in short, ragged bursts as the other pain flooded his mind, causing him to tremble with fear of past demons. The pain he hated above all others- the one about him.
And her.
A thousand knives seemed to pierce his soul all at once; his stomach shook and he vomited into the blood-stained tub. Hatred cursed through every single vein in his body, hating the old him- never the new him. He loved the new him.
He was strong now. The old him was never strong.
Nevernevernever…
But he must not be completely new; had he broken down, allowed the old him a say in things? That must be it; the new him would have be powerful enough to slash his wrist. The old him would be too afraid.
No no no no never afraid…
Yes yes yes yes always afraid…
The ray of moonlight strengthened for a moment as he cradled his worn face in his right hand. His left arm stuck out at an odd angle over the tub, still dripping horribly, and the first initial high of the goodpaingoodpain was gone. In its place was a dull ache that was throbbing so rhythmically it seemed to have a heart of its own.
Blackened heart damn the black heart
"No more…" he whispered into his hand, and attempted to ignore the tears that were wetting his hand. Silent sobs shook his body, and he rocked back and forth, murmuring to himself, tightly closing his eyes from the scene he had created, but even worse memories played over and over again in his mind, each one of them reminding him, mocking him; he had not escaped the badpain.
"Ross, I'm not ready to go through that pain again!"
Gasping for air, he drew a shaky, shuddering breath, and felt as though he were going to be sick again.
Leavemealoneleavemealoneleavemealone…
All he wanted to do was live, live without feeling guilt, hate, contempt for his former self; all he wanted was the razor. All he wanted was to be connected to the soothing blade, to be one with the goodpain.
Was that too much to ask?
Bit by bit, he stood up, his quavering knees knocking together as he opened the medicine cabinet, shifting his numerous bottles of painkillers to the side. A small pile of gauze rested behind a stolen container of codeine; he grasped it and shut the door to the cabinet. Carefully, he wrapped the gauze around his arm where his wound was; after a minute of so, the cut was hidden from sight by the faintly transparent bandaging.
He turned and leaned against the sink, his stomach lurching as he saw his blood's mark on the tub. Unable to face the goodpain that had failed to rid him of the badpain once again, he opened the cabinet again and opened a jar of painkillers, swallowing two.
A tear slid down his cheek as he unlocked the door and stepped outside his hellhole. Tomorrow, he would try again.
And if he couldn't end it then, if he couldn't rid himself of the terrible, horrifying badpain, if he couldn't purge the memories of her…
Then he would try again the next day.
Again and again, until the old him was gone forever.
No, I've never cut, so I don't know what is going through these people's heads when they do, but I'm guessing it's like any other addiction.
What'd you think? Reviews rock my socks.