Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Very short oneshot.
Drizzt sat on the cool stone floor, watching the tracks of bright red run down his arm and between his fingers. He ignored the slightly metallic smell that tinged the air; he had long since grown used to it. He watched the contrast between red and black with fascination, admiring the vividness of the blood against his dark skin.
He lifted the small dagger and slowly drew it down his arm. He was oblivious to the pain now—it only registered as a dull, distant throbbing.
He watched his skin part with an almost childlike delight, though no expression showed on his face. The blood welled up from the wound and began to drip, a warm, comforting sensation that allowed him to forget everything.
The blood was so much better than the alcohol, or the drugs. The blood gave him a sense of security, a sense of happiness—something he hadn't really felt in years.
One more cut. That was what he always told himself—one more. But that was never the case. He dug the knife in, deeper this time.
The blood pooled and he watched it closely. Leisurely, as though in a dream, he lifted a damp rag to clean the blood away and then watched it pool yet again. He always did this—it felt good, ridding himself of the pain, the hurt. The uncleanliness.
He watched the blood pulse out, in time with the beat of his heart, watched it drip from the broken skin.
Sometimes he felt as though he was someone else, watching as he bled. He would gaze at himself, eyes following the dagger's path calmly as the point disappeared beneath his skin. He shocked himself sometimes, unable to understand why he had turned to such a destructive way. But then memories would come flashing back, crippling him, and he knew.
He would tell himself that he shouldn't be doing this—it was something he could overcome. But it was so hard to go even a single day. The loss of his blood made him feel alive.
He rolled up his pant leg; there were too many cuts on his arm. The knife slid into the slender limb, blood pouring onto the floor. It could be cleaned up easily, though. Mesmerized, he dipped his fingers into the sticky liquid, feeling its warmth, its welcoming comfort.
One more. He meant it this time.
He savored the touch of the cold steel against his skin, against his veins. By the gods, it felt good!
It was a long cut, all the way up the side of his calf. He caught the blood on his fingers, gazing at it. It dripped down his hand, over his wrist, along his arm, staining his shirt.
The knife trembled in his hands, struggling to reach his skin once more. He reluctantly put it down, sighing. He had overindulged today.
He stood, bracing himself for the lancing pain that always came afterwards. He embraced it—it cleansed him.
He wrapped the bandages tightly, stopping the blood flow, and changed clothes. He bent down with a wet rag to clean the floor. And as he cleaned, he came back to himself, now fully aware, as always, of the gravity of what he had done.
He clutched the bloodstained rag tightly, his body shivering. Here he was, hidden in a corner of the abandoned bathhouse, his arms and legs covered in scars and fresh wounds, all self-inflicted, and with the bloody knife only a foot away.
How? How had he come to this? Shaking, fighting back a horrified sob, he fell back against the stony wall, covering his mouth with his hands, red rivers streaming before him, running down the drain.
