He looks at the small black plastic container, and slips out a brown paper wrapped blade.
He goes through the careful motions of unwrapping it.
He drops his pants.
And then he waits.
It was like having two people in his head.
He hates himself.
He should cut himself.
Hurt himself.
Kill himself.
He's worthless. Worthless and out of control.
A wreck.
None of the Warblers like him. They just tolerate him.
He's mess it up with Kurt. Messed it up big time.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking idiot.
He's ashamed.
Adults handle their problems rationally.
They don't hurt themselves.
He doesn't care. He hates himself.
He hates it when he looses himself.
He wants the pain to go away.
Except that he likes who he has become.
He's a decent human being.
He's worked hard to get here.
He is happy.
Except when the child comes out.
Damn it.
He's going to do it.
Someplace hidden on his body, where no one will see the scab or the scar.
Someplace where no one will know.
The blade feels good in his hand.
The cold metal is calming against his skin.
He presses until he can't feel anymore.
He presses until the bruised, broken boy inside him is quiet.
He presses until the mistakes only echo in his head, instead of beating a tattoo.
He presses until a thin red line shows on his skin.
He presses until he feels like he's himself again.
Then, he goes through the motions of cleaning himself.
Cleaning the blade.
Hiding it away.
He debates calling someone: a hotline, a friend.
But, now that he's back in his head, how can he say what he did.
If he admits to it, no one will respect him.
They'll think he's doing it for attention.
His adult self knows the consequences.
That's why he hides it.
If he tells them that there's part of him that never grew up, part of him that's damaged, part of him that gets wild and sometimes gets let loose, what will they say.
No one else is so damaged that they lost themselves along the way.
No one else is so damaged that they're still holding onto an echo of their younger self.
No one else is so damaged that they lose control.
He can't tell. He can't tell. He can't tell.
He takes the blade gently to the inside of his thigh again, silent tears flowing down his cheeks.
Damn it! He likes himself.