Finally, he was alone. It felt like ages since he'd gotten a chance, even though the clock said it had only been four hours. Only four hours, and he was already desperate and aching to taste the lingering burn that only a blade could grant him.
Fumbling, as he always did in the beginning, he brought the razor-blade down forcefully across his shoulder, making no noise as he felt the sting of the metal biting into his flesh. Waiting, he would pause between each slash and carefully monitor the wells of blood springing up behind the first blossom of exquisite pain. This was about control. It was about needing to feel something, anything, and being fascinated by the color of blood on pale skin in the bathroom mirror. He didn't like it, but he was addicted. There had never been a choice. He would cut, and he would cut deeper, harder, faster, more often, than each time before. Until the pain consumed him in a bright flood of crimson.
This was his red scream, his bloody cry for help, for intervention. / Notice me. See bloodstains and pain-filled flinches when you touch me. Fix me. Destroy me. /
He didn't care anymore. He knew he was killing himself. He knew it wasn't like building a tolerance, because he only had so much blood to lose.
He was a mess. A pale sleepless wraith with limp cinnamon hair, thin, shaking hands, and dull violet eyes. The scars were becoming the only substance left to him. They had already become the only thing worth feeling.
During the day, he would stick his hands into his pockets and feel the bumps of flesh where gaping wounds were scabbing over. Sometimes he worked his fingers into the cuts and ended up with stains on his jeans and under his nails. Sometimes that still scared him, and sometimes it only made him angry. And the angrier at himself he became, the more helpless he felt, and the more he itched to control his reality again.
Somehow, no matter how far he pushed the pain, no matter how much he took, it was never good enough. His scars were never numerous or impressive enough, his helplessness was total, and the fear was elevating.
He remembered screaming once. He had hidden himself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and just slashed without caution. It was an older blade, and the fear had worn off with use, giving way to uncontrolled hacking. Neat patterns written on thighs, upper arms, ankles, wrists, ribs, calves. He pause in the ritual desecration of his body, and simply stared at the bloody mess he had made of his flesh.
Hesitantly he had wiped away a cooling drop of crimson from his leg and smeared it across his throat. It looked bright and made his skin glisten oddly in the steam from the shower. No longer hesitant, he smeared blood from his thigh down his leg, blending it into the next spill of blood. His fingers were dripping red, and against his will, they went to his mouth, and he licked them, revolted by his actions, but unable to stop. He continued spreading the crimson stain until his entire body was coated, even painting his eyelids and lips with blood. By the time he was done, the mirror had fogged over completely. He washed his hands free of the red substance before wiping a hand through the steam. When he looked at himself, he was unrecognizable. He had become the monster inside of him. Even his hair was slicked with strands of drying rust.
He screamed then. He couldn't help it. The screams dissolved into laughter and finally he was rocking on the floor, tears making pale tracks down painted crimson cheeks.
That was the truth then. It was all a joke. A joke the world had played on him. Payback for cheating death, for playing a God with black wings. He didn't know why the teams were so uneven, but there he was, all alone, fighting the whole of humanity for what little peace remained true.
Blood.
It was all a fucking joke.