Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Suicide, Depression

AN: Dealing with depression? Suicide? Numbers to call are listed at the bottom. Try them.

~ Based on a true story. My story. Try not to make the same mistakes that I did. Talk to someone. As soon as you can.

Satisfy a Craving

The cut was small. Fading. The scabs were slowly retreating, he could see that it wasn't going to leave a scar. He traced it with a slender, pale finger. It was just below and a little to the right of the ugly blue veins visible in his wrist.

It was disappointing, really. Once it was gone, gone completely...it would be impossible to tell it had even existed in the first place.

It had been experimental, the cut itself. He had been surprised how easily the razor had cut into his skin. There hadn't been any blood. The first day, he hadn't even been able to tell it had done anything. He remembered watching in mild fascination as he pulled the blade across the pale skin. He remembered being amazed at the simplicity of it all. He had thought that more pressure would have been needed, more of an angle, a sharper blade. An hour later, he'd forgotten about it. All of it.

The next morning in the shower, it had stung a bit. But he hadn't really paid it much attention. There had been no blood. He still couldn't see any signs of anything deep. The incident had slipped his mind by the time he'd turned off the water.

It was a week after that when he really realized that it was scabbing. But again, it hadn't bothered his mind that much. He couldn't really remember it bearing any significance at the time.

But now...two and a half weeks after the initial incident. Approximately. He couldn't be totally sure...The actual cut itself had taken less than five seconds. He'd done it. There hadn't been any result. He'd put the razor away.

But now it was fading. Within the next two days, it wouldn't be there anymore. Two days, and all evidence would be gone. His skin would be clean, untainted.

His eyes fixed on the small mark. He could picture it a week ago, it had been easily identified. His razor had three blades. The cut was three neatly parallel dark lines on his skin, the scabs a comforting brown, the skin beneath red. Now...the lines were broken. Only little dots of scabs remained, spread out and far apart. He could no longer make out the middle cut. The bottom one was quickly disappearing. The red skin had healed. There would be no scar.

He couldn't remember what he'd been thinking when he'd held the razor in his hand. Curiosity had overwhelmed him. He'd never cut himself on purpose before. He usually stayed away from pain. He didn't like pain.

Or so he'd thought.

Here he was, staring at the fading mark. He felt...alone.

There would be no scar.

"Duo...what are you doing?"

He snapped out of his thoughts, jerking his gaze upwards and quickly pulling his sleeve back down. "I'm gonna have a shower," he replied, slipping a cheerful grin onto his features as he sprung happily to his feet, right hand still closed around his left wrist.

A quirked eyebrow. Prussian blue eyes boring into his very soul. He couldn't take it anymore. "Be back in a few," he said quickly, grabbing a towel from the rack behind the door and his shampoo bottle from the dresser. He left, ran away. He was good at running. Perhaps...too good at running.

He reached the dorm bathroom with little trouble. It was too late for anyone to be roaming the halls with friends. Curfew was long gone. His shower was quick, despite his long hair. He soon stepped out of the shower, quickly dried himself off, dressed back into his clothes, and headed back to his room, again without incident.

Those Prussian eyes were waiting for him, watching his back. Boring into him. He could feel them. He knew they weren't judging. They were the only eyes he could trust...but that didn't mean he liked trusting them.

"Duo...what were you doing?"

He winced visibly, his shoulders tensing. Had his roommate noticed? No...the eyes couldn't have. The mark was too old, too small. It could be accounted for a paper-cute, despite its location.

"No, Heero. I can't answer that question."

A silence descended in the room, and he quickly stepped behind his dresser, the only spot where the roommate couldn't see him, to change into his pj's. Finishing this quickly, he stuffed his clothes in the laundry basket and grabbed his brush from his dresser, settling himself on his bed and beginning the task of taming his wet hair.

He let a soft sigh pass his lips and kept his gaze focused on the opposite wall as he dragged the brush through knots, gently easing them out. He let his mind wander, thoughts un-surprisingly turning back to the mark. Two days. Two days and it would be gone.

Why did that bother him so much? Why was it such a big deal? It would be good that it was gone. He didn't want to do it again.

Reality hit him in a crashing wave, and his hands paused, trembling slightly.

He liked it.

He liked it.

The cursed cut...he liked it. Why the fuck did he like it? It was wrong, oh so wrong.

Suicide...

The word echoed throughout his mind, and he shivered involuntarily. The easy way out. The cheap way out. The selfish way out. The lonely way out.

When he'd made the cut, he hadn't been thinking along these lines. He'd merely been curious. He'd wanted to know what potential the razor had. He'd wanted to assess its abilities, its strengths.

He swallowed nervously, closing his eyes briefly before forcing his hands to move, and they worked with punishing vigor on the knots. The brush pulled painfully, his scalp screaming in protest.

He liked that pain, too. It cut off his thoughts temporarily.

But only temporarily.

He clamed down, his hands slowed. And his mind drifted again.

He liked it.

There was satisfaction in the cut, however small it was. It gave him control over the situation, control that he lacked in so many other aspects of his life.

He shivered again, the word ringing in his ears.

Suicide.

His life was near perfect. He had four good friends. His marks were decent. He had good work habits. He was in the teacher's good books. Sure, a lot was expected of him, and yes he did have problems trusting people. Ok, he had a low self-esteem and he liked to run away (far away) from threatening situations.

But those were miniscule compared to shit that other people he knew had to put up with.

He knew people who were failing, he knew people who were abused, he knew people who'd been raped, he knew people whose parents were splitting up, and he knew people whose siblings were mentally challenged.

His problems were so small.

And here he was, with a small (albeit significant) mark on his arm that would be gone within two days.

No, he decided. He didn't want to die. Not this time. So then why did he feel the need to repeat his actions? Why did he feel the need to leave a scar? The need to see something deeper? The need to see something that would last longer?

He jumped, weak fingers dropping his brush as his roommate's weight settled beside him on the bed. He froze, feeling as though he was watching from a third person's point of view as he let his hand be taken in another darker one, while one finger of the same contrasting color ran over the cut.

"When did this happen?"

"T-three days ago."

It felt like three days ago. When he said it, he really believed three days. The weeks bled together, his memories were jumbled. Three days seemed like a logical answer. He couldn't remember exactly anyway.

"It must have been deep."

"No...not that deep. See? It's almost gone."

"What did you use?"

"I..."

"Razor?"

A short pause, before, "yeah."

"You should talk to someone, Duo."

"I can't, Heero. It's not a big deal. It was only once. I can deal with this."

"Was it only once? What happens tomorrow? The next day?"

Another pause. A long one, this time.

Two days. Two days and it would be gone. He wanted to do it again, though he wouldn't admit it to himself just yet. He wanted something deeper. What would stop him from doing it again? He wanted to get closer to those evil blue lines. They drew him in. He weakly pulled his hand from that colored grasp, got to his feet, and pulled a long sleeved sweater over his head.  His fingers found a black elastic on the dresser, and he tied his half-brushed hair back away from his face, easily ignoring the bangs that refused to obey. His right hand unconsciously closed around his left wrist. He couldn't lie.

"I don't know."

He paused again. Should he let it all out? Reveal his deepest, darkest, shameful secret? Why the hell not, his mind taunted. The cut has been discovered. Why not tell the whole story?

"It...It scares me, Heero...that I kind of like it there."

Without hesitation, he got his response:

"This is serious, Duo. You have to talk to a professional. I should have told someone at the school a long time ago. This is getting out of our hands."

At these words, he whirled around, eyes wide with fright. No. That would be bad, very bad. No one else could know about this.

"Please, Heero. Don't do that. Not yet. It's not that bad. See, it's going away already."

The roommate didn't respond, and it unsettled him. He felt the sudden need to defend his actions as he seated himself uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. "Besides, you're just as bad as I am. You should be going to see someone too."

"I've never hurt myself, Duo."

"You have!" he cried out suddenly, feeling horrible for bringing up his friend's rough memories. Absolutely horrible. He could feel tears slowly building up in his eyes. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel the need to be assured that he wasn't the only one who did this?

"I dragged my nails along my arm, Duo. You saw the marks. They barely lasted an hour. And I hated it."

He sighed, defeated. "You're right. It's not the same thing."

"You have to talk to someone."

"I...I guess I could find someone at the school..."

He didn't have money for a psychiatrist. Or a psychologist. Hell, he was barely able to pay his tuition, even with the scholarship. There were phone lines he could call...but he figured that they would be just as bad as talking to someone in person.

What did people tell you, when you went to talk to them? Were you expected to pour out your whole life story and all of your inner torment to a complete and total stranger? What questions would they ask? How were you supposed to answer?

"I can't force you to do anything," those Prussian eyes were still watching him carefully. "Think about it, Duo. I'm worried about you."

He watched as Heero stood and retreated back to the other side of the room, settling down on the opposite bed and flicking off the bedside lamp.

Heero was worried about him. He was causing Heero pain. He was loading all of his worries and problems on top of his best friend...

And he of all people knew that Heero had his own demons to fight with...

He was just a burden. He was only hurting the people that cared about him. If the others found out...it would be the same thing. He knew they wouldn't judge him, but he did not want to cause them pain. No, he did not want them to suffer on his account.

Slowly, he lay down on his own bed, not bothering with the covers as he let several tears leak from the corners of his eyes. He pulled back his sleeve, thumb gently stroking the cut. Gods...what was he thinking? Why the hell did he want to do it again? What was wrong with him?

He heard a soft sigh from the other side of the dark room. "The promise, Duo. Remember it."

"I know, Heero," he replied quietly. Was there so much worry that Heero had to remind him of it? Was he really that bad? Maybe he should go talk to someone...as scary as that would be. Maybe it would be worth it, if his friends...especially Heero...wouldn't need to worry.

"The promise now includes hurting yourself. It's not allowed."

It was a statement, not a question, and it echoed in his ears. The promise itself had started a few years ago, when he'd swallowed half a bottle of Advil. That night, both of them had been pretty scared. They'd promised not to leave the other behind, alone.

He thought this over, and then nodded. "All right," he replied quietly. He wouldn't let it happen again. Couldn't let it happen again. He'd sleep, for now. And in the morning...he'd be feeling better.

Morning came...and went. Along with afternoon. And after a day of classes, he was even more exhausted and emotionally drained than he had been the night before. Except, tonight was Friday. Heero was going home for the weekend. He would be alone.

Did he trust himself? Could he trust himself? Yes, he decided. He would have to. He had the promise to keep. And so, when Heero left that evening on the bus, he settled back with a text book to do some studying.

He couldn't read. He couldn't concentrate. The letters were all a blur on the page, melding together and twisting into odd patterns. He was too tired. He would study tomorrow. Again, he had a quick shower, making up his mind quickly to head off to bed early.

And so he lay there, leaning against the headboard of the bed, the lamp beside him still on, its pale low-watt bulb illuminating a small sphere of light around him. It was dark already. Winter did that. Winter made things dark.

His eyes landed again on the mark, the cut he'd managed to avoid thinking about all day. But here he was, alone, with nothing to distract him. Sleep evaded him. He stood, heading over to the dresser where he pulled out his shaving kit, slowly pulled back the zipper...and his eyes landed on the razor. He could picture it in his hand, poised against the pale, vulnerable skin of his wrist...and then Prussian eyes glowed in the back of his mind, and with frenzied movements he shut the bag and stuffed it back into the drawer slamming that shut before he practically threw himself at the bed.

Gods, what had he been thinking? He couldn't do that...no, he couldn't. He had a promise to keep. No razors. He bit his bottom lip painfully as he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. Tears, again. He was crying. Twice in two days. A record. He never cried. He was usually so good at hiding his emotions. At hiding behind his mask. He was good at hiding. His other friends didn't suspect a thing. With a restrained, chocked, quiet sob, he got to his knees, burying his face in his hands. What was wrong with him?

The sudden need to feel pain overwhelmed him, and he dug his fingernails into his arm, right below his elbow. He released it a minute later with a gasp, closing his eyes momentarily before he surveyed the damage. Three little red cemi-circles that were quickly fading. Not good enough. He needed something deeper.

No razors, he reminded himself forcibly. He didn't know how he was going to hold himself back when he had to shave in the morning.

Pushing the looming dread of morning to the back of his mind, he dragged one finger overtop of the three indents, digging into his skin. He traced the path a few times, hissing lightly in pain and using his nail as he would if drawing it down a chalkboard. Again, he stopped to survey damage. A long red streak ran along the base of his arm. Was that good enough for now? No, it was barely visible in the dim light that surrounded him. He needed something darker. Something that would last longer, and still be visible in the morning. He needed that satisfaction, that feeling of control.

He changed tactics, using the edge of a chewed nail. The results were much better. It hurt more, yes...but just after dragging it once, already the red was starting to form. He did it again, and again, dragging his nail slowly along the same welt. It was stinging now. He got up off the bed and turned on the overhead light, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He needed to see. He needed to be assured.

The red from the first scratch was still there, and it still burned. But the second one was much darker, though still only a shade of pink. For some reason, he wanted to see red. No, needed to see red. Again and again, he pulled his nails along the same line.

The irritated area started to swell after a while. He didn't know how long he stood there, beside the light switch, scrutinizing the angry mark. He contemplated cutting his nails to sharper points, to inflict more damage. His mind wanted more efficiency. It was taking too long to reach the desired results.

But what were the desired results? If he didn't stop himself, how far would he go?

No, he wouldn't think of that now. For now, pink was enough.

This was good. No blood involved, and as long as he wasn't using any type of 'tool' to make the mark, it wasn't really considered hurting himself. Perhaps using the razor at first had been too extreme. It was better to start with just his nails. It did less damage, and still he had the satisfaction of a mark tainting his skin.

He turned off the over head light, and climbed back into bed, eyeing the second scratch once more before also switching off the bedside lamp. He settled back against his pillow, slipping beneath the covers. He didn't know how long it would be until he needed to see blood, until he needed to see scars. He didn't know how long this pink welt would satisfy his cravings. He hoped it would be for a while. He lay there, not really thinking as he let numbness settle over him. He continued to drag his nail sideways across his skin, pausing every once in a while to let the stinging dull slightly before he continued.

He lifted his arm above his head, the faint light from the window streaking in small thin lines through the cracks in the blinds. They landed, parallel and jagged, on his arm and his traitorous mind pictured them as scars. Old, white scars that had been inflicted years ago and that were still there. Still proudly contrasting against the tone of his skin. His fingers itched for the razor that was so close.

He closed his eyes tightly against the image, dragging his nails with renewed energy along the now burning line.

With the pain in the way, he could forget about his troublesome thoughts. He could forget about going further, he could forget about needing a reason for doing this, he could forget about talking to someone. He didn't have to think. He could just let his mind go. And that was what really mattered.

He soon drifted off to sleep, anxious to see if the mark would still be there in the morning. Anxious to see if pink would still satisfy him. He was still scared. If it wasn't enough, then he would have to face his fears much sooner than he planned. But if he could hold off, adding to that pink mark each day...then maybe it could keep away the demons. Maybe it would give him time to come to terms with his reasons.

If Heero found out about this...Heero would not be happy. He would have to keep it a secret. He could not tell a soul.

*~* Owari *~*

Author's Notes:

Depressed? Try these numbers:

In Canada: Kid's help phone: 1-800-668-6868

In the States: National Adolescent Suicide Hotline: 1-800-621-4000 (I'm pretty sure this is the right number...)

"If you are attempting or contemplating suicide right now, call: 911" [Quotation from Sean Covey's 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens]

Get help. Honestly. Do NOT do what Duo does in this fic. Talk to someone. There are people waiting to help you. It's up to you to take the first step. Be strong. There are people that care.

~ Telpei

This world
This world is cold
But you don't
You don't have to go
You're feeling sad, you're feeling lonely, and no one seems to care
You're mother's gone and your father hits you
This pain you cannot bear

But we all bleed the same way as you do
And we all have the same things to go through

Hold on if you feel like letting go
Hold on it gets better than you know

days
You say they're way too long
And your nights
You can't sleep at all
Hold on
And you're not sure what you're waiting for, but you don't want to no more
And you're not sure what you're looking for, but you don't want to no more

But we all bleed the same way as you do
And we all have the same things to go through

Hold on if you feel like letting go
Hold on it gets better than you know
Don't stop looking, you're one step closer
Don't stop searching, it's not over
Hold on

What are you looking for?
What are you waiting for?
Do you know what you're doing to me?
Go ahead...What are you waiting for?

Hold on if you feel like letting go
Hold on it gets better than you know
Don't stop looking, you're one step closer
Don't stop searching, it's not over
Hold on if you feel like letting go
Hold on it gets better than you know
Hold on

Good Charlotte

Hold On