The urge to tear his skin apart is almost overwhelming. Open up a vein so that the crimson blood may slither darkly down his arm, leaving a trail that never quite washes away. Peel away the layers, digging lower and lower through the gory mess to relieve some of the tension.
The days are infrequent, thankfully, when his skin feels as if it doesn't belong to him, stretched taut over muscles and bones, containing the delicate organs in a vaguely recognisable form. (None of it feels recognisable, all unfamiliar, unknown, uncharted terrain.)
Though he's never been an overly-sentimental man, it's worse when his thoughts drift to what might have been. Quagmire of feelings and emotions pulling him down to contemplate what he could have done differently, whether or not it would have made a difference. (In truth, there was nothing that he could have done. He hadn't realised the truth at the time, still oblivious before the piercing realisation.)
His moods have always been volatile, manic energy to blackest depression. An inexpressible ache as if the world is falling apart, as if everything is somehow too tight and not tight enough. A desolate, numb, hollowness and desperate need to feel something, anything, even if it's only pain. (Way to ensure he's still alive.)
Sometimes, he wishes that he'd left more scars back then. Badges of what he's been through to remind him not to sink back, to focus on the Work instead. Only a minor scar on the back of his hand, left by fingernails and a biro, edge of a ruler and point of a compass, digging slowly through the minute layers of skin, stinging but not really sore. (The wound that didn't bleed left the deepest mark, still visible so many years later when the light is just right.)
His skin crawls at the memories, the pain and disappointment, the feeling of disconnect. It lingers, separated from everything almost like a quarantine. No room for him in that world, filled with so many other things. Things that are more important than him as if, in spite of his intellect and sharp abilities and the dramatic flair that follows him, as if he is invisible, overlooked, not really there.
He curls tighter in on himself, fingernails buried in the palms of his hands, long, lean body folded into nothing. Foetal position. Primal instinct when protection needed, whether from the outside or the inside.
This skin, this mask, this façade of unfeeling coldness, stripped away to reveal everything underneath. Revealing it to the outside world would need a blade to cut through flesh first, to rent him apart though he's imploding under the weight of everything left unsaid, and what can never now be said.
None of this fits him anyway.