Notes: Duo POV. Introspection, angst, deep talk of cutting, but I don't think I need to warn you about that seeing as you've read this much. Also, I know this is a tad short, and I'm sorry, but I wanted to end it there, and couldn't think of anything else to add. Enjoy and review!

Deathscythe needed some major repairs, at least a day's worth if not more, but I didn't care about that as I climbed down the tall machine to fall to the ground. I stayed here for a moment, kneeling in the dirt, blood coating half of my face from when I'd been knocked into a control panel and cut my forehead open.

Screams, loud and filled with agonising pain, echoed in my mind, drowning out all other noises. Why did they have to scream so much? Couldn't they die silently? Did they know what their screams did to me?

My fingertips were already starting to itch with the need to hold a blade, to make the sight of my blood drown out the sound of the screams. I took in deep, ragged breaths, trying to ignore the need, the desire, the urge.

I needed to get to Heero. Heero would make it better. Heero always made it better.

I forced myself to stand up, and took a step forward, nearly falling over but managing to balance myself in the last moment. I didn't know if it was the need to cut, or the head wound that was making me so uncoordinated. I was staggering around like a drunk, my ears were ringing, my head spinning… yep, it was the head wound. Though, the need didn't help matters.

I took a deep breath and took another step forward, pleased when I managed to remain upright. Had I been thinking more clearly, I would have taken a moment to clean some of the blood off my face, but the need to get to Heero was too strong, too overwhelming, and I found myself staggering along the streets, steadying myself against anything I could, taking the quickest route I could think of to the motel.

Heero was waiting for me, as I knew he would be, and I all but collapsed on the floor. His eyes widened at the blood, and he instantly began checking me over, asking me questions, making me follow his finger and stuff. He led me into the bathroom and began cleaning my face with warm water and soap. It stung when he neared the actual cut, but I ignored it, preferring to focus on how warm and gentle his hands were.

The cut was deeper than I thought, and he applied a few stitches before stepping back. He reached out and took one of my hands in his, holding it up and watching as it trembled slightly. He looked at me, and smiled sadly.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked softly, and I actually hesitated. I would have thought that talking would only make the problem worse, that thinking about cutting would only make the need stronger, but I had been doing some research the past couple of days, visiting a couple of websites, and apparently, talking about the problem helped you to not cut. I didn't understand it, but I was willing to try anything at this point, so I nodded.

Heero led me to the bed and we took a moment to get comfy, me huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees, and Heero sitting cross-legged in front of me. I opened my mouth, but couldn't think of what to say. There was just so much to talk about, I didn't know where to start.

"Maybe you should ask a question," I suggested weakly after a moment, and Heero frowned.

"Okay… What does it feel like when you cut?"

Trust Heero to ask one of the more complicated questions. I frowned and bit my lip, thinking. I couldn't really find the words to describe how I felt when I cut, beyond the brief descriptions I'd already used, and those weren't what Heero was after. But it wasn't easy, to describe the numbing bliss that enveloped me when I cut. Only someone who knew the feeling could ever hope to understand it.

But, maybe Heero didn't need to understand; maybe he just needed to know.

"It usually starts off faint," I murmured uncertainly, not looking at him. "Kind of like a song playing in your head that you can't forget, and you try to ignore it but can't. I start to feel uncomfortable, restless, like I can't think. My skin starts to feel funny, like there's a fly on me, just walking along my body, and I can't shake it off. My fingertips feel especially bad, they start to burn and itch, like I put my hands in water that's just a tad too hot. I try to ignore it, try to resist, but I can't. I never can. I always give in.

"Depending on the situation, I cut in different ways. Sometimes, the need, it's so bad that I just make a quick slash, one second and it's over with, and I just watch the blood trickle down my arm. Sometimes I take it slow, letting myself feel the blade as I drag it across my arm, feel it as it cuts into the flesh and draws the blood out of my veins. Sometimes I cut more than once, using both the quick and slow method.

"But no matter how I cut, the end result is always the same, the feeling it gives me never changes. It's like, in that one fraction of a second, I can do anything. I could reach out and touch the moon and crush it in my fist if I wanted to. I feel invincible, because no one else can do this to me, for me. No one else can cause this feeling of ecstasy. It's like, all the worries, all the pain, all the doubt, it just fades away, leaving only the blood, dribbling down my arms.

"It doesn't last long, a few minutes, quarter of an hour at the most, but when the rush fades, it doesn't go away entirely. Part of it stays in me, letting me cope with my life, letting me look at myself in the mirror and not feel disgusted. It used to last longer, back in the beginning I'd barely cut once a week, but as time went on, and my life got worse, the feeling would fade quicker, I'd cut more often, cut deeper, and I stopped worrying about what people thought.

"Back in the beginning, I was terrified of people finding out, I was ashamed of myself for being so weak and stupid, I'd do everything to hide the scars, hide the pain, but as I got older, I just stopped caring. I still hide, but only because I didn't know how else to act. I stopped thinking of it as wrong, because I'd come to depend on it so much, and nothing that felt so good could ever be wrong. It was my lifeline, the thing that kept me anchored, kept me sane, and I stopped being ashamed. I wasn't proud of myself for doing it, but I wasn't ashamed either, it was just… a fact of life, a part of me. And I think… it always will be."