scars5
Scars - 5

What had he done?

Despair was coursing through his veins, thicker than blood. He dropped his head into his hands, hating himself. Surely Mitsuru had made good his escape at this golden opportunity Shinobu had given him. The boy wasn't a fool. That was partly the reason Shinobu cared so deeply for him. No; Shinobu himself was the fool.

He hadn't cried in over four years.

Maybe it wasn't despair. Maybe anguish was a closer word. He was sure he had lost Mitsuru, the only person in the world who held any meaning for him, perhaps the only one who ever had.

Fool!

Why had he done that? Why had he told him? Why had he wasted everything on three small words?

Because you care enough about him to be honest, a gentle voice murmured in the back of his mind, but roughly, he shoved it away. What was honesty in the face of brutal bereavement and loneliness?

He was a complete idiot.

The tears were hot on his face, burning him like the sun did not. It felt like his eyes were bleeding.

Not only had he failed his family, but he had failed the one he loved most. He had failed Mitsuru.

Wiping a fist angrily across his cheeks, he stood silently, and threw open the door to his closet. His eyes were dark as he sifted through his belongings, determination burning in his eyes. He found the item, shut the closet tightly, and exited the room, shutting the door behind him. He headed with measured steps to that bathroom.

The shower. It was safe there. He would be alone.

~

Mitsuru paused, hearing a strange steady silence from inside the room. He pushed open the door slightly, glanced in, and saw no one.

Well. Shinobu must have gone out.

He sighed, and wiped the sweat beading on his brow away with a careless hand. He would have more time to think at least.

He pulled out a book and settled himself at his desk.

~

It was cold at first, but then the gentle stinging romanced him, and a faint trickle of red appeared. He sat in the shower, his left sleeve rolled up, brows knit in concentration. He didn't want to press too hard, just hard enough to focus himself, to feel the pain outwardly that he was feeling inside.

His tears that he had missed had dried on his cheeks, making the skin feel tight. He pulled the razor up a little higher, gentle, testing. This razor was sharp. That was good to know.

Another line of red appeared. Pretty. He felt almost a hysteric glee at seeing it. It was certainly distracting him from his problem with Mitsuru.

Mitsuru.

Abruptly his hand froze, perched above his arm, the edge of the blade laced with blood like the talons of a bird of prey.

Mitsuru wouldn't want him to do this.

He lowered his hand slowly, moving the razor away from his arm, pain sending delicious twinges up his shoulder. His hands were shaking. He leaned back heavily against the side of the shower, feeling old.

He hadn't been denied yet. Mitsuru had simply changed the subject. No. It had been Shinobu who had cut him off. Hadn't it?

It didn't matter. Mitsuru couldn't love him anyway. He had failed him. He was worthless.

The tears came again, retracing their paths down his cheeks, silent sobs wracking his thin frame. This time, however, mimicking the tears in a grim display, blood glinted its way down his forearm as well.