It wasn't even dawn when his alarm went off.
An 'alarm' being, of course, an annoyingly heavy Blair jumping onto his torso, effectively cutting off his breathing supply.
Soul let out a groan as the cat-turned-woman landed on him, a feeling of being suffocated immediately following.
"Get off me you damn cat, you weigh more than a truck!" He yelled, squirming.
Blair jut out her bottom lip in a sort of pout.
"Aww, my Soul! Please don't be mad at me! I just came to give you a good morning!" she said, her breasts rubbing against his chest.
"I bet BlackStar is less annoying than you," he spat, pushing her shoulders with a bit more force than really was necessary.
"That's rude!" she yelled, getting off of him and plopping down on the floor next to his bed, crossing her arms and making her bottom lip puff out even more. If she pushed it out any more, Soul would be tempted to tell her to stop before a bird came and perched on her lip. Her nightgown slipped down to reveal more of her large breasts, no doubt intentionally. Any man would be drooling at the sight of a sexy kitty sitting and pouting at their feet.
Soul was unaffected.
"Blair, leave. Go bug Maka or something," he muttered, rubbing his chest, inhaling a bit more deeply than necessary to stress his point.
"She keeps her door locked. I can't get in," she said.
"Maybe I should start following her example," he replied.
Blair let out a loud sigh before getting up and slinking her way out of his room, swaying her butt in a sensual way. Soul was unamused.
He glanced over at his clock, it reading '5:46 a.m.' He sighed; Maka would be getting up in almost an hour to start getting ready. Grabbing a set of clean clothes, he slugged off to the bathroom. Not glancing at the mirror as he undressed, he turned on the shower, and sat in his boxers waiting for the water to heat up. He cursed their bad plumbing system, living in Death City. After the water reached an acceptable temperature, he climbed in. Letting the warm water cascade down his back, he closed his eyes and tipped his head backwards, feeling the bliss of the hot water cascading through his white locks.. His mind didn't particularly focus on anything, and he let his thoughts just wander in what some might call free association. He didn't want to think about anything special, so he just thought of everything.
There was that party at Kidd's tonight. Kidd hosted a lot of these parties for them, at least once a month. Maka really made it sound like a big deal, but Soul didn't really care for them. He remember the last of Kidd's parties, they had played Truth or Dare. It was becoming a ritual for every get together, and Soul quit the game last time after he was dared to strip and jump into the freezing outside pool, to which he was called a chicken. If only his friends knew that it wasn't about the cold water, but the scares that littered his whole body that he would have exhibited around for the whole group. BlackStar laughed and called him a coward, to which he gladly agreed.
If only they knew.
Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like for someone to find out. Would they be shocked? Probably. He could imagine all his different friend's reactions. Maka would freak, Tsubaki would look sad and concerned, Kidd would pretend like it didn't bother him and never again meet his eyes..
There would be one definite reaction, though. They would attempt to force him to stop.
And so he would never tell.
Sometimes he just wished he could feel the warmth of other people around him to drive away the loneliness. There was a barrier that was solidly formed between him and his friends. He wished that the secret didn't feel like such a burden all the time, weighing down on him like a ton of bricks. It seemed to constantly plague his thoughts, such as at this moment. He would be walking down a street, and would find himself glancing at other people's arms to see if they fell a victim to the razor as he did, but there was never anybody. When he stood late night at the convenience store, bandages and disinfectant in his arms, he looked at other people's baskets to see if anyone else had the same things, as if somebody would notice him and come up, saying something about it and confiding in him, to make him feel less alone. It was a one in a million chance.
But of course, it never happened like that.
He was doomed to forever feel the pain and endure it by himself. There would be no magical meeting of someone who had the same problems. He was alone, and he deserved to be. He was worthless and disgusting, and he didn't have any reason for someone to reach out to him, he was a lost cause.
He stopped himself there, opening his eyes and shaking his head. He couldn't think like that. This free association was dangerous for him, he could feel the first nibbs of the panic brusling inside him. He tried to quickly distract himself, as he didn't want to have a relapse right now. For god sakes, it had only been a few hours since his last one! He was definitely getting worse.
But the panic soon came, and he could feel it. He knew fighting it was useless, he was going to give in. He was going to cut. He knew he didn't have as much time as he had last night, so he had to make it quick. It was a good thing he was in the shower, the mess would wash itself down the drain when he was done. He gripped the edge of the tub as he felt around, finding a hidden razor behind the hair care products. He had a lot of these hidden blades, scattered around, placed expertly. Even if Maka stumbled upon one, she probably wouldn't think anything of it. He could feel the need to cut closing in on him, tightening his throat and restricting his breathing. He NEEDED it. Now. Fumbling clumsily, he brought it over to his side, sparing his already freshly injured arm. He didn't really feel the worse emotional pain. This was a different kind of cutting, it wasn't something to block out the overwhelming feelings. This was the addiction of the sting. This was the dangerous part, the part that scared him.
He was doing it, with no real motive besides the addiction. The addiction was in ways, worse than when he did it because of the emotions. He couldn't stop himself, he felt the yearn for it. He wanted the sting, he wanted to see his own blood. It was sick in a masochistic way, he felt as if he deserved to give into his addiction. He was a junky.
He tapped into his feelings so the pain he felt was accompanied. The worthlessness. All he could feel was the worthlessness. He needed to think those thoughts. He was disgusting, and vile. He didn't deserve this blood. He deserved the pain. He was his own tormentor, in a world of pain.
That was it. This was what he was craving. He moved the razor across his skin, softly and then more aggressively as the blade dragged on. He opened his eyes to watch, seeing the line of red slowly appear onto the porcelain white flesh. He let out a quiet hiss. He was like a druggie with his next line, the feeling was again, indescribable. He stood for a few moments before positioning the razor an inch below the first cut, and let his mind go free as he pressed the edge down again. And again. And again.
Just one more.
And again.
He couldn't stop himself. It was all just too good. He felt it, the sting. He watched the blood ooze down his side, mixing with the water and becoming a lighter pink color, washing down his body and down the drain. Every cut and the color of the water turned more opaque with red.
He knew he should stop and finish his shower before Maka got up, but he couldn't stop himself. Before he knew it, there were six identical cuts on his hip, each red with the mixture of blood and water. He restrained himself from bringing the razor down again, biting his lip. It split with the pressure from his razor teeth, but he ignored it. Leaning his head onto the tile wall, he put his hand over the cuts, closing his eyes. He came down from his worked up state, breathing shallowly through the shower steam. He stayed like that for a few moments before slowly lifting his head and rinsing off his side, the blood running and running before gradually turning lighter shades of pink, until the water was once again clear. Soul shut off the shower and stepped out, shivering at the cold air as hit his wet body. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around himself. He kept his eyes closed as he walked over to the mirror, a surreal feeling following him. He lazily looked up at his own dripping wet reflection. His hair was a dark gray color, the wet strands weighted down and clinging to his face. His hands holding his towel up clenched before letting go, dropping it to the floor so he could fully examine himself.
He was a mess. All the cuts ran down his arms starting at his shoulder, and down his chest from right below his collarbone. There wasn't an inch of pale skin untouched by scars, with the exception of in the middle yet again where there was a clear space surrounding the word on his stomach. His ribs were clearly visible, and his hip bones jutted out in a sickening fashion. The cuts continues all down his legs and inner thighs, stopping at his knees. He stared at himself for quite some time, transfixed. No matter how many times he looked at himself, he would never get over the feeling he got when he did. His body felt alien to him, it's only purpose was to hold his scars. It was strange, his scars were more important to him than his body. He had given up his body to his addiction; to his pain. Soul wasn't his body. He was his scars.
Lightly, he traced over the ones starting on his chest, downwards. He knew he was suppose to be hurrying, but he didn't think about it at the time. He wondered idly if he would ever sit and count them all, but he knew it was an impossible task. There were so many, some overlapping others, some faded and then were some that weren't visible, overtaken by others. His fingers made their way down his chest and sides, saving his stomach for last. His finger trailed to the outside of the bubble of unblemished skin, before picking up and touching the 'W', slowly tracing it.
'W', he remembered, the pain of the little knife in his hands. The starting point was more faded than the rest, from where he had started unsure. The cut got deeper from then on, leaving a permanent mark.
'ORTH' was also deep, the same amount of pressure. Soul could think back, almost as if it were a movie in his head, and he pictured himself with the knife, slowly dragging it across his skin with a precise motion.
The 'LESS' however, was noticeably more of a scar. His fingers traced the smooth cuts, his eyes following. He saw himself, his hand tightening until his knuckles were white as he pressed with such a force, as if all his anger and hate could be expressed in the slow motions of the knife. His feelings, his soul all went into the sharp edge as he mutilated his own skin, decorating it with red.
Soul snapped out of his almost daze as he finished the word, looking back up into his own eyes.
Soul had always loved his own eyes. They were a color that reminded him. They were the same exact shade of fresh blood, and he often admired the comparison. He loved them, and they were the only part of himself except his scars that he felt he wanted. He could be in a public place and just take a glance into a mirror, to see the reflection of his eyes. They were what kept him going when he couldn't pull out a razor. The color reminded him of those alone moments he spent with his scars. The color was a promise of the sting that was later to come.
Soul tore away from his reflection and dressed quickly, not wanting to make Maka suspicious if she had woken up while he was in the shower and was getting impatient. Putting on his signature red skinny jeans and black and yellow jacket, he left his hair wet to air dry on it's own. It didn't matter how much time he put into his appearance, he never really saw himself anyway.
Sure enough, when he exited the bathroom, his blonde haired partner was lounging in the kitchen still in her pajamas, clutching a cup of steaming coffee.
"Morning," she greeted him, followed by a yawn and a large sip. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement, his wet hair flinging drips onto his face. He scowled irritatedly, opening the fridge to browse the food he knew he wouldn't be consuming. There was only one that was worth looking forward to for Soul, and that was the anticipation of his next... Relapse.
For so many burdens he bore, that was his reward. His own self-destructing mind kept him on the edge of his seat. The pretend eating, the lying,the fake facade of coolness. Long sleeved shirts during summer, the constant feeling of dread and suspicion that someone had figured it out. For all the secrets and lies, he pain of the sting and the adrenaline rush that came with the scarlet stained blade was worth it. The addiction was worth it, in a sick, twisted way.
Like an alcoholic father whose family had been ripped away from him. His very addiction was both his salvation and destruction. Every drink was more numbing than the next, each sip a sweet bliss. Though, with every sip was another brick he added to the wall dividing him from his family. Each sip was another agitating poke into the belly of a monster, soon to explode and wreak havoc. And he sat alone with a bottle, a grim satisfaction in his heart. He was alone with nothing left; except his sweet addiction to keep him company. He gives into his addiction, and in a way he is happier there than with the rest of the world.
Soul felt the same way, alone in a room with nothing but his addiction. His friends still surrounded him, but there was still that wall that he built up cut by cut. And that wall would never be broken down, unless someone were to find out about his addiction. The the walls would be gone and they would be a part of his own dark reality.
Soul was determined to never let that happen, however.
Maka watched him intently as he browsed the refrigerator, showing no signs of repenting. Soul let out an involuntary sigh before grabbing an apple and closing the door.
"What's the plan today?" he asked, bringing the apple to his mouth, The shiny green skin taunted him as he opened his mouth in preparation to bite.
"We have a mission in the city today, and Kidd's party is tonight,: she replied, sipping her coffee once more and tearing her eyes away from him to look at the day planner spread out on the island counter. He brought the apple down from his mouth to reply, sucessfully using his nicely developed 'fake out' trick. He often used it when Maka started to show interests in his eating habits. He would get ready to take a bite before starting up a conversation, and casually start talking every time he was about to eat. It created the allusion he was eating, while all he did was look like he was intently focused on their topic and not on his food. Maka was usually none the wiser.
"What time does Kidd's party start?" he asked, already forming excuses to protest not going.
"It starts at seven, we'll be sleeping over. And there is no way you're getting out of it, either. You skipped the last one, and the one before that. We need to see our friends once and awhile," she replied, scowling at him in a way Soul could only describe as nagging and bitchy. He often thought of her this way, if not only just to take his momentary annoyance out on her. She was his best friend and his meister, but their personalities clashed way too much for him to handle. She was like the scolding parent, telling him to clean his room or finish his dinner. It grated on his nerves most of the time.
He returned her scowl with his own, casually setting his apple on the counter. Maka rolled her eyes and put her now empty mug in the sink, and headed off for the bathroom. Soul didn't move for a while- not because he couldn't, but because he really had nothing to do. He stood still, staring down at the piece of fruit with a childlike intensity. He distantly heard the sound of a door close and the shower start up, but he paid no mind. Kidd's party? He would have to go, if not to keep up appearances. It was a nuisance to him; he really didn't see any benefit of going. What reason was there to? They would sit around and play games and drink. They would chat about their experiences and lives. Kidd would retail the details of his latest mission, Patty adding her input when the need arose. Liz would sneak out for a cigarette, Tsubaki would busy herself in the kitchen with Maka, making snacks. Blackstar would sit and preach about his god like qualities to any who would listen. What would Soul do? Sit and look bored and not speak? That was all he usually did. What else could he do? Talk? He had nothing to say. His addiction took up most of his life, and somehow it had consumed his mind without him noticing. When was the last time he thought of something besides his razor, or how he was going to skip dinner with avoiding suspicion? It had been months. Years, even. His whole being was consumed around his scars, what did normal conversations even consist of? Sports, clothes, TV shows? When was the last time he played basketball with his friends or followed a TV show? What determined his clothing choices; the scars littering his arms? He wasn't on normal standards by any means, so how would he be able to appear that he was? He would sit and speak little, playing indifferent to his peers and wish for the night to be over. That was the only set plan he could think of. So that was what he would do.
He heard the shower turn off and the blowdryer start, and within minutes Maka was entering the kitchen, ready to go. He saw her pause at the fact that he had not moved, so he shifted his weight off the counter and walked over to the island, grabbing his wallet and silently heading out the door without a word. After a moment, she followed him. He walked out the front door, down to his bike. His bike was a Harley Davidson, given to him by his parents when he first moved out. He wasn't really into bikes, they were just transportation. Though, by the shiny exterior, it must have cost a lot.
"Soul."
He looked over at his partner, pausing. In her hand she held his apple; the one he hadn't bitten into. The look on her face was unreadable.
"Thanks," he said, reaching out and snatching it from her hand. She said nothing more as he put his helmet on, and only after he was fully on it did she come over and grab her own helmet and board. He started the engine and they took off, in a quiet and uncomfortable silence. Soul felt like a scolded child who had done something very wrong. There was a dread filling his stomach in place of substance. He would have to be more careful than he already was with Maka. She couldn't find out he wasn't eating, because if she found out he wasn't eating, she would find out about the cutting. And nobody could know about the cutting.
Nobody.
They rode down the street at max speed, dawn just shining over the horizon to chase away the darkness of the night. Soul shook with an unknown emotion.
All he had to do was complete his mission today and get through Kidd's party, and then he could retreat to the warmth of his bed, where he could block out the world with a dreamless sleep.
He would have to bear his burdens until then.