AUTHOR'S NOTE:
this story was originally posted to ao3 in july of 2014, and is being posted the same way it was back originally, without any further editing.
Karkat bit his lower lip, the cold tip of his sickle making him shudder. He had never, ever done anything like this before- hadn't even thought about it- but something was wrong and Karkat had a feeling something needed to be done, okay? This was a perfectly good excuse to be cutting himself open in front of a mirror, what are you talking about. Trolls do this all the time. He can do this.
He's already mentally freaking out by the time the incision is cut, a single slice down his stomach that leaves beads of cherry blood trickling down his legs. His face contorts into a grimace, cutting twice more before he pulls the skin back, exposing what he is ninety-nine percent sure are his organs. Oh god, oh god that's so gross. His breath quickens, and he isn't sure how to keep himself open so he just holds his skin like that, swallowing thickly.
He's never seen a medical diagram, never seen anything labeled or anything, and here he is, trying to figure out which body part is the one causing him so much pain he's actually doing this. His eyes trail over the reflection of what he thinks is his pumpholder, branches of bone jutting out around a pulsing something and the rapidly expanding and deflating things on either side. Those are fine, he's sure. There are so many things in there he has no idea what they are or what they do oh god.
Curiously, disgustingly what are you a freak, he lets the skin partially fold back, carefully drawing his hand over the looping organs that occupy his abdominal cavity. He whines, he fucking whines when he gives it a soft squeeze, and berates himself for it. He passes this off as a noise of pain, yes, of course, pulling it back to observe further. Downward, downward, til something catches his eye.
He idly wonders how he hasn't bled out or some shit yet, but he doesn't care, because something looks gross and red, a little appendage poking out of the loopy-whatever, a disgusting acne-shiny-red with a glob of pus oozing out. Immediately, he deduces this is the source of the problem, because he learned long ago that pus usually means it's gonna get chopped off. Probably. If he's wrong, oh well.
He fumbles for his sickle, it almost slips out of his sticky, red hand, and shakily, carefully, brings it up and tries to press it in just hard enough, he doesn't notice the way his exposed bulge trembles and
"...Karkat?"
He stops, the sickle slips and cuts a gash in a pocket of fat as it clatters to the floor. He yelps, lets go to cover it, to pull himself closed before anyone can see beneath his ugly, ugly skin. No, no, not now, especially not now. He's sitting in a pool of his own blood, shaking and he thinks he might be crying now or is that drool he doesn't know or care but he's in pain. The room is spinning as he snaps out of focus, and vaguely, he sees a flash of red and black, feels a hand on his shoulder, and he opens his mouth as the room goes dark.