Twisted Pleasure
Disclaimer: I don't own Drake, but I think he's an amazing character.
Warning: Self injury and rather dark sadism. I highly recommend that you don't read this if such things bother you.
The first time it happened, he was repulsed. Disgusted. Horrified.
Not because of the blood dripping off his knife, not because of the dark red lines he'd dug into his arm. Not because of the sharp pain he felt from the marks intentionally engraved into his skin.
It was because of the satisfaction. Drake had never been more captivated by anything before. He'd never seen the crimson life force sapping out of a human body. Never felt the adrenaline rush from knowing that this, here, was real, not on screen in some movie he'd watched secretly in the dead of night, too violent for any normal eleven-year-old boy.
He knew it was sick. Wrong, to get some horrible, twisted pleasure out of seeing his own blood seeping out of his body. But wrong had never felt so good.
Maybe it was the power that did this to him. The knowledge that all he had to do was swipe the blade and another trail of blood would appear. Nothing, no one, could stop him, could tell him what to do. The cause and reaction both rested with him, his to command. He loved it, cherished it, the feeling of being so in control.
Drake put the tip of the knife to his wrist and pulled it slowly downwards, opening the skin in a deep, vertical line that crossed the other slit marks on his forearm. He reveled in the way the flesh would make way for the cold, unforgiving metal, letting it past unwillingly. He watched with fascination as the knife easily glided up towards his elbow.
He knew it was dangerous. Knew he'd kill himself if he didn't stop. But why stop now? Wasn't this the best way to die, having the time of your life?
He let the blade fall onto the floor that was already stained with the dark liquid, blue eyes going wide with realization. What kind of a monster was he? Why wasn't the sight and smell and feel of what he was doing making him sick? What was wrong with him?
And as he ran his other hand along the bloody mess he'd made of his skin, lovingly stroking his handiwork, he felt no disgust. Only the wonderful, beautiful feeling that came from causing this pain, wielding all the power in the world, being able to do this to himself without having to stop out of revulsion.
And he knew it was wrong to feel this way. But he'd never loved being wrong so much.
