AN: This story contains self harm, so if that triggers you I'd suggest not reading it. Revised 11/23/13.
"Things will get better, brother."
That was one of Thor's favourite things to tell Loki when he was down.
"Things will get better."
Loki let a sharp laugh go, flinching at how dead it sounded. It was a phrase people who are okay love to say because they've seen things get better. They've experienced things getting better. But some people don't have that joy, and Loki was one of those people.
Whether it be by his own actions or not, Loki's life never really seemed to get better. When he was young he had believed Thor's words and held them dear to his heart. He believed things would be okay when he got older - he needed things to be okay when he got older. Of course that wasn't the case. As Loki grew older, his feelings of failure spread. The bad days turned into bad weeks that turned into bad months that eventually turned into bad years and no matter how much Loki fought the darkness, it always came back for him.
Loki had spent many nights fighting his thoughts. Thoughts he didn't dare voice, thoughts that he hoped no one could hear. They troubled him, and they were never kind. Shoving his failures into his face, always comparing him to Thor, always reminding him that he was not quite good enough, reminding him that things were not better. Loki spent many nights fighting his thoughts, and he rarely won.
Eventually Loki would give up fighting and summon the only thing that could take away the pain the thoughts brought along: a blade. The blade wasn't anything fancy, but it was sharp and it worked. He spent a long time looking at the blade and touching it before gliding it across his arm, never marking his skin until he was ready, and never before then. Loki would sit and let the thoughts take over and drag him deeper and deeper into the Hell he had created for himself.
"You'll never be Thor." Cut.
"No one really likes you." Cut.
"You're only tolerated because of Thor." Cut.
"You're a snake. An unpleasant figure in all of their eyes." Cut.
"You're weak." Cut.
"You're pathetic." Cut.
After a while Loki's thoughts stopped, but his hand did not. Over and over he would drag the blade across his skin, his one focus being the blood that dripped down his arm and onto the floor. Nothing else mattered , and his thoughts were muted. The moment he lost focus was what he was after. In those moments there was no good enough, there was no Thor and there was no one else. Those moments were his chance to let the darkness out before it consumed every inch of his being. Those moments were his, and his alone.
Loki was thankful for the blade and what it had done for him. He spent a good portion of his life trying to fit in and trying to make friends, but he knew that no one was really his friend. They were Thor's. But the blade ... The blade was his friend. It gave him something without expecting anything in return, and it made Loki feel okay without expecting any thanks of praise. It was always there for Loki no matter the time or the day. The blade was the only thing Loki could count on and the only thing that could chase his thoughts away.
Loki stared down at the puddles of blood. He stared at his reflection, and into his eyes. Smiling, Loki watched as his smile told a lie greater than his words ever would. But his eyes ... They showed it all. They showed his pain and his anger, his failures and secret pleasures. They showed him that his thoughts were still there, and that they would always be there.
"Things will get better."
Cut.