Fanciful Imaginings
By Andruindel
Guys, this is really random and depressing, because I was feeling super depressed.
lilililili
L set his teeth in a grimace. He was not going to cry out. He refused to cry out. Even though the pain as the knife blade sliced thinly through his skin was excruciating, he refused to let himself be weak. He knew that if he cried out, or if he stopped, he was a coward. And he was not going to make himself live with that knowledge. He was not a coward. He was the opposite of a coward.
The knife trembled in his grip as he paused between cuts. A drop of blood worked its way down his arm from the incision, mimicking the tears that traced their way across his cheeks. The drop wended slowly down his forearm, ending at the tip of his index finger, and quivering for a moment in empty air before dropping to the ground. L grimaced as he watched the sight, but did not react. The sight of his own blood had lost any ability to make him sick months ago.
Slowly, he wielded the knife again, and made another small cut right next to the first. Again and again he wielded the blade, making cut after small cut. The blood began to flow rapidly; he almost could not see well enough to cut himself again. For a moment he paused, staring at his bleeding arm. Tendrils of blood seeped downward; he could feel them every inch of the way. His skin, hyper sensitive under the self-torture he was committing picked up on the tiniest touch. His nerves sent signals to his brain in rapid succession; First the sharp sting of the blade, and then the dull burn as the cuts wept. L licked his lips, and slowly drew his tongue up his arm, tasting the salty flavor of his own life-blood. A shudder worked its way down his spine, and he clenched his eyes shut, resisting the urge to scream.
He couldn t even remember now what had started this new.. habit. All he could remember was the way it felt whenever he traced the tip of the knife across his skin; the way the scars felt as they formed. Unconsciously, he dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor, into the puddle of blood that had begun to collect beneath him. Shaking uncontrollably, he ran his fingers over his arms, tracing the scars that he had given himself in recent months.
There was the one on his left shoulder; his fingers curled over the join as he dreamily ran them over the scar. Faith... The scar read, though you could only tell if you looked closely, and no one had bothered to look closely. No one saw that scar; they never saw any of his scars. He kept them hidden under the long sleeves he wore.
Sometimes, he could see that people wondered why he wore long sleeves at all times. None of them would ever find out, though. He wasn't cutting himself so that he could gain sympathy. He was doing it because it hurt. And because that pain was the only way he felt that he could distinguish reality from fantasy. His life had ceased to look any different from the nightmares he suffered; he could only tell the difference when he took the knife and sliced his skin; when he felt the pain slash through him like fire.
His fingers traveled down his arm, to the sensitive skin on the inside of his elbow. That one had been particularly painful. Pain... The word marred the pale flesh beneath his fingers in a slash of bright red; the scar had not healed fully yet. It wasn t pale and hard like the others were.
L suddenly opened his eyes; his midnight gaze was no longer swimming in tears. His arm was beginning to burn unbearably now. With the knife lying unwanted where he had dropped it, he unfolded from his usual position and stood. His feet barely left the carpet as he shuffled across his bedroom and into the bathroom. Rather than blind himself with the light, he merely felt his way to the sink, and switched the water on. The sound was deafening in the stillness; He winced, but dutifully held his arm beneath the flow.
The blood began washing away, and slowly, under the influence of the cold water, the pain began to fade. The blood washed down the drain, laying bare the cuts he had just inflicted on himself. Fear... The word was vivid, a visible sign of what he experienced daily. When the pain had faded nearly all the way, he shut the water off again and stepped away from the sink. He was still bleeding; he could feel another drop working its way down his arm already.
Bandages...
That was what he needed.
When he had finished his task, and donned a new shirt, there was no way of telling that he had been cut. Only the dull throb in his arm reminded him that he was, in fact, awake. Reassured, L slipped into his bed, resting his cheek against the rough fabric of his pillow.
Some day, he would find another way to distinguish life from dream...
Some day...
But not for a long time...
