Dan couldn't remember the first time he started wearing jumpers. The cutting had started that exact day. Afterwards, he had fallen asleep and slept through for the first time in months. But the next day, all he could feel was guilt and shame.
Who knows how long this process had been repeating itself.
He had met Phil a year ago, and they had become friends, best friends, in fact. Phil was the reason why he stopped. However, he still wore jumpers every day, as a reminder. For a year, a whole year, Phil had bought happiness into his life. That happiness had stopped, suddenly, on the anniversary of their meeting. (Not that he was counting, that is.) The happiness that had arrived with Phil left, leaving guilt and sorrow.
He still put on a façade, of course. Phil couldn't worry about him. He's too pure, too innocent for the black world that had swallowed Dan's colour.
Why? He was a faggot. Faggot, faggot, faggot. He was a fairy, a pansy, a fag. He was an ugly, dark, depressed, loner who didn't deserve anyone's love – let alone Phil.
Phil. Phil, Phillip, AmazingPhil, Lion, Sunshine, Flower. Phil Michael Lester. The love of his life. The person who would never, EVER, like him in that way.
He hadn't noticed at first. The way his eyes always seemed to slip over to him, the way he always positioned his body towards him, the way he always seemed to drift off into space whenever he looked at him for too long. (No, he wasn't staring.)
But then he started having thoughts. About how Phil's eyes perfectly matched the blue of the sky in the morning. The way his hair always seemed to look perfect, even when he had just woke up. The cute way he poked his tongue out of the corer of his mouth. His smile. Oh, his smile, Dan was absolutely smitten with it. It was the perfect amount of cheekiness, laughter, happiness and love, and when he smiled, he didn't just smile with his mouth and eyes, but with his whole body, happiness spurting out of his skin.
Then was when he had realised. He was in love with his best friend.
That's why he sat in his room, blade evenly placed in his hand, just as he had done countless time before. Phil was out; he was all alone, just as he had been years before. The minute the blade opened up his skin, he felt better. This was good. Blood was all he needed to become healthy, become himself again. Twisting and turning the cold steel, he opened the cut up even more. More blood came pouring out. Drunk with deliria, he didn't notice the blood pouring on his bed and carpet, staining the grey a deep red. Finally feeling complete, he kept pushing the knife further and further, reaching the point of insane deliria. He screamed, more in joy than agony, as more and more blood came pouring out, eventually pushing him into the deep dark hole where nothing seemed to matter.
