You have to tell him.
Cut.
You have to tell him.
Cut.
He'll have your head if you tell him.
Cut. Cut.
You have to tell him.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
He stops and stares at the red welling from his wrist through a blur of tears. His head feels lighter– it's clearer. He sets down his knife. His sharp intake of breath cuts through the air as his calloused fingers brush the slashes. He whispers words, his eyes glow. The cuts are healed, the pain is gone, and his head is clouded once more.
You can never tell him.
Cut.
word count: 100
There's a tragic lack of self-harm fics.
Reviews are lovely, my dears.
xoxo, Juniper.