cyanide torres was always a little too skinny.
he would look in the mirror for prolonged periods of time, like now, just running his fingers over his developing muscles as a teen, squeezing the tendons and thinking he could feel the blood rushing under his skin. he would stop and frown, and start to poke at his chest and by that time, he'd already given himself piercing after piercing. sometimes they woke him up when he slept because they were cold. he would open his eyes and imagine a knife sliding over his skin under the covers.
his paranoia never showed, though. it all stopped when everyone else changed. everyone was busy realizing who they were and cy thought it was time for him to decide. and he did. but he never got past the paranoia. the nausea at the pit of his stomach telling him all his flaws and all the bad things that would happen, like the knife under the covers.
*he* was the knife under the covers. cyanide knew from the moment he wanted to hold him in his arms until time brought them down, and forever after, that if cyanide ever allowed him, it cut through the skin and the muscle and the blood and right into his heart. he felt it happening as he drew away and latched to her. he felt his knife sliced through the taut, dark skin of his body, into the permanent colors and slowly to the beating heart. it ached and ached and he tried desperately to be strong. he had to forget somehow that he cared like that. that he could ever get past him. that he should be happy for them.
before he knew it the knife started to slide out and sleep was beginning to dawn on him. lovely sleep, where everything was as he imagined. it was drugging him and he felt the pain go away because things were fine now. he realized he wouldn't lose him, the knife that he cherished but could kill him without notice.
he looked in the mirror and smiled at himself. he mouths to himself that everything that could hurt him had faded away with the circumstances of now. he touched his hair and admired himself and told himself that he couldn't be hurt. he had the catalyst that could be the end of him. he could be happy now. he was stronger than he thought. he could fight off the knife now that he had her, and convinced himself that she was a new layer of protection.
his hands touched his chest and he saw a little crayon mark that had failed to wash off. he looked in the mirror and watched the drop fall quietly to the floor.
he was always a little too skinny.
he would look in the mirror for prolonged periods of time, like now, just running his fingers over his developing muscles as a teen, squeezing the tendons and thinking he could feel the blood rushing under his skin. he would stop and frown, and start to poke at his chest and by that time, he'd already given himself piercing after piercing. sometimes they woke him up when he slept because they were cold. he would open his eyes and imagine a knife sliding over his skin under the covers.
his paranoia never showed, though. it all stopped when everyone else changed. everyone was busy realizing who they were and cy thought it was time for him to decide. and he did. but he never got past the paranoia. the nausea at the pit of his stomach telling him all his flaws and all the bad things that would happen, like the knife under the covers.
*he* was the knife under the covers. cyanide knew from the moment he wanted to hold him in his arms until time brought them down, and forever after, that if cyanide ever allowed him, it cut through the skin and the muscle and the blood and right into his heart. he felt it happening as he drew away and latched to her. he felt his knife sliced through the taut, dark skin of his body, into the permanent colors and slowly to the beating heart. it ached and ached and he tried desperately to be strong. he had to forget somehow that he cared like that. that he could ever get past him. that he should be happy for them.
before he knew it the knife started to slide out and sleep was beginning to dawn on him. lovely sleep, where everything was as he imagined. it was drugging him and he felt the pain go away because things were fine now. he realized he wouldn't lose him, the knife that he cherished but could kill him without notice.
he looked in the mirror and smiled at himself. he mouths to himself that everything that could hurt him had faded away with the circumstances of now. he touched his hair and admired himself and told himself that he couldn't be hurt. he had the catalyst that could be the end of him. he could be happy now. he was stronger than he thought. he could fight off the knife now that he had her, and convinced himself that she was a new layer of protection.
his hands touched his chest and he saw a little crayon mark that had failed to wash off. he looked in the mirror and watched the drop fall quietly to the floor.
he was always a little too skinny.