A/N: Yo, sorry for the late/short chapter. No excuses.
So I cut my finger open yesterday and i took the bandage off early and it looks pretty fucked. (That's a good thing; soft gore is my aesthetic.) So if there's any spelling/grammar problems blame me for being a clumsy fuck and falling with a glass in my hand.
There was a moment (more like a year,) in Marceline's life where she was itching to self harm at every moment. Every chance she got she cut into her skin. By the end of it she was covered in scars and stitches, bruises which were fading and cuts that still hadn't quite closed, the taste of blood lingered in her mouth for months after she stopped cutting open her lips. Bonnibel always said that Marceline was a book and her scars were the letters, the words, the sentences, the paragraphs, the chapters.
Marceline would say they were signs of weakness. Defeat. Signs of the times in which she was hurting more than anybody else was.
She still cuts. Not because she's weak though, but because it's become a sickening habit. She cries herself to sleep every night after ruining her skin even more.
Bonnibel's never angry, she says, but there's something in her eyes that Marceline knew damn well was disappointment.
Because she was nothing more than that, all she'll ever be in fact. Just a fucking disappointment to everyone around her.
Reason number whatever why me and Marceline are the same: Read the last bit.
Again, it was a half/half thing on the keila and mother vote. Imma need you guys to leave more reviews about it.
Reviews are always nice. Also I'm on twitter again so you can DM me if you want!