A/N: This little discontinued opener has been written for a long time and was previously only posted on my deviantART account, but I thought that perhaps I should add it here too seeing as it is fanfiction.
Please do not read this story if you think you might be triggered by discussion of self-harm and/or child abuse. All events presented in this story are fictional and I do not recommend doing anything similar yourself.
Originally posted January 24, 2009
When he was a boy, he used to do it.
He liked the blood. He liked the pain. He liked the very sense, the sense of power that it gave him. His father had this power. The power to harm. And now so did he.
It was easy to do it. Almost too easy, for such a brilliant mind as he had. Blades were commonplace. He didn't live in the good part of town.
So, every night. Every night- and some mornings, even, while it was still as dark as if death had come upon him- every night he cut.
He was satisfied. And the little, poetic, part of him, it was satisfied too. For now he was scarred almost evenly, within and without.
And one day his father walks in on him. His father knew. Of course his father knew, though with all the punishment inflicted by this man, only a little more and just a few cuts, might not have been noticeable to anyone else.
The boy looks up, fear slipping into his eyes unheeded and almost dripping out, his grip weakening on the knife. "Why so serious?" His father asks, unfeeling and spiteful as always. Not waiting for an answer, not giving time, he swoops in and claims the knife, pressing it hard against the boy's face, hard and cold.
"I said why- Why. So. Serious?" The boy can tell his father, for one, is serious now, and he blinks but fails to stop a pale tear running down, down into the slower seeping red that is starting to be let out, now, by his father's steady pressure. He can hardly talk now, if he had wanted to, his voice scrambled into nothing. He bites off a sharp exclamation as he feels his skin rip, the knife sliding farther up his face and then being drawn carefully out. A part of him is shocked, a part worried, but the rough way his father's other hand has come up to turn his son's face stops him from even examining the wound, confirming his fears that it is the worst scar his father has ever given him.
His father slices again, this time quickly, and the boy is sure that something is affecting the other. The knife slides an excruciatingly painful bit farther than last time before stopping. The boy gasps, accidentally causing himself more pain as his eyes flash with more than just fear.
His father laughs. "There. Now I will always- always!- see your smile. Your. New. Smile." He laughs again, and it is terrible for the boy to bear. It rings in his ears, corrupts his thoughts.
And then it is gone. The knife is on the floor, bloodier than ever. The boy realizes his hand seems to have dropped the weapon-perhaps in shock- and so he reclaims it.
He thinks, for a moment, in the suddenly dead silence.
And he begins to cut again...
