Potential trigger warning. I say that, because I'm having trouble writing it because I'm shaking so bad. This brings up a lot of bad memories for me, it could do so for you as well if you struggle with self-harm, self-loathing, or depression. Or, it could always be because it's easier to detach or distance yourself when reading, but when you write something, you have to mentally put yourself in the situation wholly and completely. So, it could also have absolutely no affect on anyone but me. Meh.

TriggerWarning

Things only got worse from there. Quickly, for that matter. The first time I cried a little more tan a year and a half after Ryan and I had permanently moved in with Felix and Marzia. The next major "bad point" came about a month afterwards. I tried to ignore it. I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to "just be happy." And when I couldn't, I faked it. It was exhausting, and I was sleeping later and napping more than usual, but it would be fine. I would get used to it eventually. I would get over it, eventually. Two months of constant, worsening exhaustion, sadness, irritability, moodiness... It leaves you a little unpredictable. Unstable. At least, that's what I blamed at the time, at least inside, though on the outside, I could only apologize for it, because I could never let Ryan, Felix, and Marzia know how selfish and horrible I was.

So, as per usual, in many ways the day started out like the day before, and like the next day would have. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner scattered among filming, editing, uploading, chores, familiar flirting, misc. entertainment, you know, the usual. It wasn't until nearly ten at night that it went from Tired-Okay-Stress-Fine-KeepGoing to Bad-Horrible-Worthless-Wretched-JustDie.

We were on the couch, and by we, I am referring to Felix and I. Something was playing, either Family Guy or American Dad, I can't remember which, I wasn't paying attention. Felix was leaning against the arm of the sofa and I was curled into him, practically in his lap. He had his arm around me as he watched the cartoon, purposely laughing gently enough not to disturb me, either physically or auditorily. It was fine. I was fine. It could have been worse, and it would have been worse if I had been sitting on the couch alone. He was warm. He loved me. I kept reminding myself of that, that he loved me, that Ryan and Marzia loved me even if they loved him more, and that even if he loved either of them more, it was fine, I would be fine. I was okay, there's nothing wrong with loving someone more than they love you.

And it was all okay, and I would be okay as long as nothing went wrong, except something did, so I wasn't.

So, as I was sitting there, staring at a screen without seeing anything, counting down the minutes until I could go to bed, he grabbed a glass of what that he had set on the end table to take a sip. Except I was mostly in his lap and I guess there was more condensation on the glass than he expected or maybe something really funny happened on screen, I don't know, but first something hit the top of my head and that kinda hurt and then I was suddenly freezing and soaking wet as I leapt up from the sofa.

And, because of my poor mood, I didn't take it well. To say I flipped my shit would be an understatement.

"You STUPID MOTHER FUCKER!" He hadn't even stood up as I started yelling.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't fucking mean to, huh? Oh yeah, cuz that makes it SO MUCH FUCKING BETTER-"

"What the hell's going on?!" Ryan yanked the door open immediately to find out why the hell I was screaming and as he did so, I noticed Marzia coming down the stairs quickly for the same purpose, but in my unrighteous fury, I completely ignored both of them.

"I mean, what the absolute FUCK, you STUPID piece of SHIT-" I continued to scream up at the Swede until the shock left his face was replaced by anger, albeit much more justifiable than mine.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell is your problem!?" He didn't yell back, but his voice certainly got louder.

"What's my problem? Oh, I don't know, how about the dumbass who just decided to drop his fucking water on my fucking head, that's what!"

"Wait, are you telling me this is just about a friggin cup of water?" Ryan asked incredulously.

"That's what I'm saying!" Felix threw his hands in the air.

"Oh, it's just a friggin cup of water, is it? Fuck you too then." I hissed, bristling against Ryan at the first sign of him turning against me.

"Fucking, calm the hell down!" He told me, neither backing down nor stepping up to my challenge.

"Yeah," Felix glared at me, "And when you want to grow the fuck up and apologize, come talk to me. Until then, I will be elsewhere where I don't get yelled at by selfish, immature little bitches for absolutely no damn reason." And that was when I knew I had really fucked up, because you can insult Felix or yell at him all you want, but you know you either really pissed him off or really hurt him if he responds in kind. Which, of course, made me even more miserable, which made me hate myself more, which made me even angrier, especially as he turned around and walked away as if I didn't matter at all.

"Felix!" Marzia didn't even spare me a glance as she went after the Swede, which hurt more than the harshest glare could have. I stared after them for a second, then slowly turned to Ryan to see what the final verdict would be.

His mouth was pursed in a thin line, and he seemed torn between going after the Swede and staying to deal with me, whatever that would entail, whether it be hugging me or yelling at me or finding out why I had flipped out or all three or something else completely. I wanted so desperately to stay... even if it was to yell at me... That would mean he hadn't given up on me, right? But I knew what I deserved. I didn't deserve anything better than to be kicked out of the house, even if I knew they wouldn't do that, at least not tonight, but I certainly didn't deserve any of the attention I so pathetically craved, good or bad, after what I had just done. So, all it took was one more nail to seal my coffin.

"Can I fucking help you?" I hissed, glaring harshly at the brunette and while part of me wailed and begged him to stay, to notice my regret, to notice that I needed him to stay... But, luckily, anger makes people more than a little blind.

"Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?" He growled, turning to follow the Swede, thankfully not sparing a glance backwards. If he had, he would have seen me crumple down to my knees in agony.

What the hell is wrong with you?

I'm worthless. Wretched. Despicable. Pathetic useless unlovable cruel worth nothing better off dead stupid selfish spiteful wretched wretched wretched wretched.

"Gone... Gone..." I whimpered as my head fell onto the seat of the couch, which was wet from where the water had been spilt but I couldn't even pick my head up even if I want to I deserve it worthless worthless worthless. All alone. You deserve it.

"Alone..." I heard someone softly crying and shut up as soon as I realised it was me. They might hear they might come they might see how pathetic I am they might leave me.

They'll leave me anyway.

"Wretched. Wretched wretched wretched," I whispered softly as I forced myself to stand, feeling absolutely exhausted. I could hear voices from the kitchen. I didn't want to be here if they came back. Didn't want to face them. At the top of the stairs, I came to a revelation.

We all sleep in the same bed. But they won't... Won't want to... Won't want me...

I stared blankly at the mostly open door. The large bed that we all shared looked so, so tempting. But...

But it's not mine.

So, I turned, kept walking, until I reached the next door. The bed... Was made neatly. Untouched. It hadn't been slept in since Ryan and I had switched from it to the large bed in the master bedroom. It would have stayed empty if I wasn't so wretched. I deserve it.

Though it was smaller that the bed that we had all shared, when I was the only one curled up all alone staring into the darkness it felt huge. I was still cold, to the point of shivering, when I heard three set of footsteps coming up the stairs. The knot of anxiety, of panic and regret and sorrysorrysorry spread with each step, and it was not small to begin with. Then, I heard the door to the master bedroom open and, after a pause, close. Then, one pair of feet made their way towards the room I was in. The door opened with a soft creak, and a ray of light shone in. I didn't move or acknowledge it, I simply layed there, curled up, shivering but facing the other way and after a moment, the door simply closed again and the person went back to the master bedroom. The door opened, closed. Soon the house was still. I laid there in the dark for what could have been minutes or hours, listening for the sound of life or love and hearing absolutely none from the rest of the house, wondering if I was the only person here, if they hadn't simply snuck down the stairs and left me all alone, because I would deserve it.

Regret, anxiety, panic, loneliness. Above all, despair. Regret moans, anxiety festers, panic sears, loneliness suffocates. But you know what despair does? Despair... screams. Despair shrieks its hopelessness and all you can do is just try to hold the wailing within you. You can't dare to release it, no one else would understand that it's not you that's screaming, and you just have to sit there with it bubbling on your tongue until, drop by drop, you eventually swallow it, as if it were poison, and then it will never go away, it will always be there, festering in the hollow cavity of your chest until the acid dissolves your heart and then-

Shut up. Shut up shut up SHUT UP

Stop making this worse, stop making yourself panic, you put yourself in this position, you're making it worse for yourself. Stop it.

Unable to handle the silent shrieks of despair as the echoed inside my own head, I sat up in bed. I turned on the light. It didn't help. I tried making small noise, tried listening to music, tried to read, tried tried tried nothing worked. I tried but I just couldn't make it go away. So I went downstairs. I couldn't make myself sit down, I was restless but so, so tired. I was especially tired of being tired. And as I wandered around, I happened to trail into the kitchen and it was just lying there as if it was waiting for me and nothing like that had ever seriously occured to me until then but all of a sudden there it was, just lying, glinting in the glow from the window and from the clock on the stove that said it was almost one in the morning somehow and just as quietly I went back up the stairs and into the spare bedroom, shut the door, then went into the bathroom and shut that door too for good measure.

And then there I was, holding a sharpened kitchen knife to my wrist, just barely touching it, wondering if they would be too disgusted with me to even look at me when they found out. And they would because wrists are obvious. They're stereotypical and harder to hide than necessary. No, the wrist wasn't right. Not the wrist, somewhere else. The entire forearm was the same, it would be so suspicious if I started wearing long sleeves everywhere and that's completely ignoring the fact that I have three lovers and no the forearm wouldn't work either. Then I took my pants off because I have to but I have to find a good place but I didn't know where and then, as I grabbed my shirt to pull it off, it occured to me. So, I pulled the still damp shirt off. My shoulders and a few inches under my clavicle were still icy compared to the rest of my skin from prolonged contact with the wet shirt.

And even though I knew where I was going to do it, after I took my bra off to spare it the stain, I just stood there, staring at myself in the mirror, in just my underwear, knife poised just under my collarbone, just a few inches too low for what I deserved, because I'm far too cowardly to just end it like I should, wondering if I'll even do this, knowing I will and knowing I won't and the first one was the hardest but it was an accident, I hadn't noticed how hard I was pressing or how bad I was shaking until I noticed the red trickling down, and the burn accompanying it.

And every one after that got even easier until I had seven cuts going down from under the right side of my collar bone. Then, I did seven more on the left side, because even as I'm ruining myself I would like it to be symmetric. And then I just stared down for a while, watching as two fat drops of blood trickled down, one from each row, before stopping a few inches down and congealing. And I just thought that... it wasn't enough. They weren't enough and there's only so much space on me, so I need to make them last longer, I needed to make them worse, I need people to see how much I regret it and how much I hate me and want to die and want to be saved, so I turned to knife so that it was almost parallel to the skin and pushed it down and scraped all the way down both of the rows of cuts and that made the cuts split apart and bleed. Then, diagonal to those, at the juncture that's somewhat shoulder, somewhat chest, I put a row of four on either side, scraped them once, then again and then scraped the first rows again. It was then that I noticed that even as it reopened and deepened the cuts, the blood that had already been dripping from the cut got scraped off and splattered on the counter and the floor, so I kicked my clothes out of the way and watched as the blood droplets claims the white surfaces, daydreaming about passing out in here and having Marzia, Ryan, or even Felix finding me in the morning and just holding me and crying and promising to fix me, to make it all better, except that that couldn't happen, or wouldn't, I'm not sure. Then, on my right shoulder, I made seven cuts, from back to front, deeper then the others, and I don't know if that's because I put more force into it or just because of the angle, and these bled a lot more than the others, dripping constantly without stopping, especially after I scraped them. So, I made them a match on the left shoulder in exactly the same way. And still, I wasn't done yet. I just needed... A little more. A little longer... A little redder... So, perpendicular to the cuts on my shoulder, right over the head of the humerus, I put exactly five more, going over the curve and just a little ways down my arms. Because they were on skin stretched thin over bone, they spread a lot when I scraped them, but they still weren't as wide as the ones higher up on my shoulder. I wanted to be done then, but I couldn't stand the thought of having those scars and not having the other side match. So... I forced five more. I didn't like these, but they needed to be done just as much as the first ones, just for different reasons.

And finally, the despair that had been clawing at my throat, the anxiety that had been knotted in my chested more months... Finally, that tension had gradually been released. The shrieking of despair could be silently sated with the shedding of blood. And without that despair, that mindless goal of destroying myself driving me, with myself back in something that could almost be considered my right mind, I was hit with the realisation of the repercussions of this like a bucket of icy water. My shoulders and my chest were absolutely on fire, and after I washed the blood off of myself, I would need to disinfect all of the cut. And, of course, that would have to come after I cleaned up the bathroom so that it doesn't stain. And that's completely ignoring figuring out how to keep these cuts hidden long enough to heal if not scar... except there would still be scars more than likely and how the hell do I explain that?

Never again. That would be the one and only time. It was a singular breakdown that would never repeat itself and once would be enough for me.

So, I cleaned up the bathroom, disposing of the towel once I was finished with it. Then I grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and took it into the shower with me. I rinsed the mostly dried and crusted blood off and cleaned the cuts with the hydrogen peroxide, hissing at the sting, and then got back out. Before I threw on the T-shirt, which I would now have to wear to bed from now on, I took one last look in the mirror, only then noticing the glistening pink of the cuts on my shoulder from where the inside of my flesh was actually showing from the skin splitting so far. I cringed, especially as I realised those were the ones that I would be having to wear bra straps over.

Never again. It wasn't worth it. I promised myself that I would never, ever do it again. Too bad I couldn't keep that promise.

End

That chapter... It flowed so easily from my head that I was never stuck, so on one hand, that chapter was supremely easy to write simply on principle that a lot of it was... simply recollection (Not the fight though, I'm not exactly confrontational, for one, secondly, ya now, I don't have four lovers), but on the other hand... It's probably worse for me than for anyone else, because as I said, to write, you literally have to be inside of the head of your character, so it's like... I was right there again... It was hard for me, needless to say.

Anyway, yes, I know that, in this story in general, but especially in this chapter, I literally just ignored lotsa grammer rules. Incomplete sentence and run on sentences everywhere, just to begin. However, I would say that that's a fairly accurate representation of how I think when in that... mindset, and I know for sure that that's how I write because I tend to send people essays via txt that are written exactly like that. It's pretty bad. Especially my boyfriend, he get's it something awful. But anyways. Hope you... enjoyed..? Or whatever the equivalent of enjoyed would be for something like this, anyway.