Chapter 9
Eyelids snapped open. Violet eyes frantically tried to assess the situation.
Light. Day. Morning? White ceiling. Navy sheets. My room.
He sat upright and winced; the movement was too fast for his still tender injuries. He looked around the room. It was as it always was. Neat, tidy, as expected. There was the cat's bed at the foot of his own. It lay there empty of its owner.
Yuki struggled not to feel disappointed at the revelation, but he was not surprised. Why the cat had stayed at all was a total mystery. The idea filled him with hope against his will.
Hope was dangerous. It left you open to get hurt. And he wasn't sure he would survive rejection from him of all people. That would be too much. More than he could bare.
He sighed deeply and willed himself to be stronger. Hope was a luxury he could not afford. Love was a luxury he refused to even dream of.
Love.
He berated himself. His mind had uttered the word he had tried to lock away. He refused to acknowledge it. Denial. Denial would keep him safe.
He looked down at the bandages that wrapped his arms. He had tried to ignore them, the cuts and bruises and broken bones. They were a reminder of what had happened. He hadn't looked at them: the cuts that were bound to scar and remain forever.
But now, as he looked at the white linen, he felt the urge to punish himself for his dirty thoughts. How dare I hope. How dare I want happiness. That wasn't an option for me.
"Yuki-kun?" The gentle tone startled Yuki. He looked towards the origin of the voice. "Breakfast is ready, but if you aren't feeling well, I can bring some up for you?"
"It's okay, Miss Honda, I'll be down in a moment," the boy managed to reply, his voice was raspy, he wasn't sure if it carried through the door.
"Okay, don't rush!" Her joy permeated the thin door.
Miss Honda. If you knew what I was thinking you would be so disappointed. Or maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you agree. That I am ugly. Worthless. Weak.
Yuki shook his head, chastising himself for thinking so lowly of her. She was pure and kind, it was a disservice to assume she would think this way.
He got up and made his way to the bathroom. The urge to punish himself for his thoughts was intense and needed to be sated.
A boy was reflected in the surface of the mirror. His grey hair and lavender eyes were familiar, but somehow different. His gaze seemed hollow. There were deep bags under the empty stare, the colour a stark contrast to his even paler skin. A hand reached up to touch his neck gingerly, it was an angry shade of deep purple. Hideous. If he looked closer, he was sure he could distinguish the shape of slender fingers.
Eyes closed. He undressed.
White bandages. He began to unwrap the yards of linen. From his arms, his chest, abdomen, and legs. The boy in the mirror was grotesque. His body was covered in red lines, black stitches and blue bruises.
Tears blurred the image. Ugly. Hideous. Disfigured. Monstrous. Frightening.
He turned away. That was enough.
I can't even bare to look at myself. How could anyone love THIS. Love me?
It was a luxury I was not destined for.
I am not worthy.
I am worthless.