Still not mine.
The first cut was an accident.
Or at least half an accident.
He slipped in the shed, and sliced his arm on a sheet of metal, warped and bent in the corner.
It hurt, but only a few drops of blood popped out, the skin red and raw.
He didn't tell anyone, because it wasn't a big deal.
But that night, he did fall asleep. And he woke up from a dream, oh shit a dream, oh god make it go away
and she was dead, and
it. was. all. his. fault.
and they were all dying,
lying around him begging, and
he. didn't. do. a. thing.
And he woke up crying, into a world where (shut up shut up shut up shut up) only half of the dream was true, but half was enough, so maybe the rest was true as well?
And he beat his head against the wall, and then he found the cut on his arm, and, and,
He didn't make another one.
Or stare at it in fascination or anything.
He just squeezed it.
More blood came out this time.
And it hurt more this time.
Red used to be his favourite colour.
He didn't think it was now.
Because it wasn't a good colour.
It was the colour of punishment, because you did something wrong, and you deserved it, and it was the colour of blame.
The blood got on his sheets, so he threw them out, and bought new ones the next day.
It wasn't a big deal.
It wasn't.
(Shut up)
The sheets weren't red anymore
(Shut up)
They were clean
(Shut up)
And innocent
(Shut up)
And it was going to be alright.
It was.
*A/N review.
And go read 'Alone', kay?
Good.
