Written because, when self-injury is covered by other authors on this website, the mutilation is often a form of cutting, and I want people to know that other forms of self-harm exist and are also important. I'm not saying that cutting is not important, but I want to tell people that there are other methods of injuring oneself. I also want to show that people with terrible home lives are not the only ones who suffer with mental illnesses; they can affect anyone regardless of race, sex, gender or income.
It seems a lot of my fics are trying to teach something to people, doesn't it…?
Roxas sits in class and follows lectures as best he can, quickly writing down notes because he knows the information will be on the next exam. The next exam is the last, and he needs to get an excellent grade to keep up his good grades so he can remain an honor student. It's not necessarily something he really cares about, but his parents want him to be an honor student so he does it for them. They praise him and tell him he's their little genius, and he smiles and thanks them. He's their angel.
Standing at the bathroom sink, he doesn't feel like an angel. Roxas doesn't feel like a devil either. No, he's definitely not demon material, the kind-hearted boy that he is. What he knows he is, however, is not good enough.
The pain, the emotional pain tearing at his chest, suffocating him from the inside out, is too much to handle. He's collapsing and no one can see it, which is the way he wants it. No one would want to save him anyway, the pathetic bastard that he is. No one in their right mind could love him, not even the woman who gave birth to him. Her words, like her husband's, are lies.
Before Roxas thinks about it, his hand closes around the left handle of the faucet. Water trickles, and then begins to gush. The water is cold at first, which Roxas doesn't particularly like because he can always warm up after. He likes it hot, steaming hot, to the point where he thinks it's hot enough to blister his skin. It's perfect, and better than anything he's ever experienced.
He shoves his hands under the hot water and hisses. It's hotter than he remembers, and it's hard to adjust, but it feels so darn good. He pants in pain and relief, because he can turn his suffering into something physical. The emotional and mental pain is strong, but not so strong that he's completely numb, because this water still helps him feel. And oh, how he feels.
After several minutes, Roxas withdraws his hands from the faucet and turns the handle back to its original position. His hands are bright red and they hurt, but there is no blistering, which he is thankful for. It hurts to turn off the bathroom lights and close the door, but it also feels good. His energy is spent, he's tired and drowsy from working out his emotional baggage and his hands are sore. He regrets nothing, not even the irritating feeling of his bed sheets rubbing against his raw skin.
The next day, he wears gloves to school. Everyone knows why a person would wear gloves during the winter, so no one asks questions.