Worthless: The Second Story: Riku's Tale, By Phoenix Pinion

Disclaimer – I do not own Kingdom Hearts, nor any of its characters, only the idea of this fanfiction. Please don't sue

WARNING – This story contains vivid scenes of self-mutilation. It can be triggering to those who mutilate themselves. Self-mutilation is extremely dangerous and not to be taken lightly. If self-mutilation disturbs you, offends you, or if reading about it is triggering to you, then by all means, DON'T READ.

     If there is one thing that I still recall from living in Destiny Islands, it is that everyone who knew would ask why. It seemed like they had lost all grasp of the human language but that one word, that sickening word, why?, as their horrified eyes would stare at my scars. Their eyes seemed to speak more words with their wide staring than their mouths. Begging for answers, all that could tumble from their mouths was, "Why?" I do not believe that even one of them understood that there is never a simple answer to that question; all that they understood was the scars, was that I was hurting myself willingly and intentionally, and most of the time I doubt they even understood that either.

     I guess it would be a bit unnerving to see something like that. When I first started out, with a small knife I had stolen from my mother's silverware drawer, I was afraid to even break the skin. It was nerve-wracking, I have to admit, to realize that one slip of the knife could be deadly, or that your mistake could be broadcast to the world when you try to keep such a large, devastating secret. My first cuts were small, thin welts that did not even bleed – they were created mostly from the pressure of my hand pressing a knife nervously to my skin, as I cast quick glances to my closed bedroom door, afraid of an unwanted intrusion. I sometimes even think that those first cuts were of curiosity rather than depression. I was not particularly sad when I started mutilation – I simply remembered that once I had read a book with a main character that cut herself. It had fascinated me, especially her vivid descriptions of the tortured pleasure it gave her. No, those first cuts were not of depression. Soon, however, depression just gave a convenient excuse for the taboo thing I was doing.

Awhile after that first venture into cutting, I grew bolder, moving the still razor-sharp knife to my wrist, where so many lifegiving veins flowed blood to the rest of my body, pressing the knife deep into my soft skin…watching in a horrified fascination as blood began to dribble down my palm. But it scared me, that first time I drew blood on myself, scared me into wondering how far I could go; almost immediately I pressed a towel to the wound, breathing heavily, eyes wide in terror of what I had done. I did not realize how badly I was shaking until I peeled the blood-saturated towel from my wrist and saw the terribly deep, jagged wound my trembling, knife-wielding hand had left on it.

     It was surprising to me to note, however, that after the wound had healed (leaving a large pink scar, as I was deeply ashamed to note) and a few days of not worrying about my secret being revealed had passed, an odd change had come over me. Whenever I saw that scar, I thought of feelings that I had had while cutting it. And before the panic had taken over, there had been a lot of feelings. One of them had been a type of exhilaration, an excitement that I had never felt so strongly before. Another was a terrific pain, an affliction that hurt so badly it made me lightheaded and dizzy. It almost felt as though I had vented everything – my frustrations, my anger at myself, my depression – into that cut. And I was beginning to want those roller-coaster emotions again; when I actually cared about others finding out, such a long time ago, the realization I would go farther and cut again excited me to no end.

     I loved – still do love, in fact – the sight of the blood streaming down my palms. It is a dark, sultry red, a beautiful red, and such a contrast from my ugly pale, milky smooth skin. Seeing it drip slowly into the cup that my hand has made for it, watching it dribble between each finger and hearing it trickle onto the floor, gives me such a thrill of power. Just thinking that I have the power to make myself bleed – not just bleed, but bleed – and thinking that I could very possibly have that same power over others, makes my head spin.

     Now that I think about it, all that I really knew then was the blood. It was what brought me back to my bathroom every single day, shaking and trembling with need to feel that sharp, silky touch of the razor on my body. I wanted to hurt myself. I wanted to see that blood, that glorious blood, the only sign to me that I was still alive and not dead physically like I was on the inside. Soon those emotions that I felt while I cut were the only emotions that I felt at all; a terrible, cold numbness had overtaken me. I had fallen into a pit; a pit of depression and suicidal thoughts, and the only thing that seemed to be able to pull me out was that razor. I had no knowledge of it then, but the razor only served to pull me out, but then push me back in deeper than I had been before.

     But at the time I'd kinda liked it.

     I still do kinda like it.

     It may be hell, to cut desperately every single day, to marvel at the blood, to feel the numbness until the razor slices my skin, to know I'm in a vicious cycle that I can never be pulled out of…but at least it's a familiar hell.

     With that thought I sigh deeply, reach into my pocket. I pull out a tiny razor blade that no one knows about – not even Maleficent.

     And I cut.

~To Be Continued…maybe

Author's Notes – I'm going to start with a little rant about Worthless.

     It sucks. Terribly.

     It does not describe true cutting at all. At the time that I wrote it, I did not really understand – I really didn't understand at all – what people's thoughts were when they cut and why they did it. I think I do a lot more, now. Hence, this chapter. Sure, I know I'm going to alienate you guys with this…it's really, really detailed about cutting. And no one likes that. I just need to get these feelings and emotions out before I explode, you know? And I stopped cutting (and thank God that I did. If any of you guys are considering cutting, please don't. It only causes hurt and pain to you and everyone around you.) …so I can't do it any other way than write.

     So, I think I'm going to make Worthless into a compilation of sorts between two different stories with two different viewpoints, but with a common theme – self-mutilation. The first story was Sora's. It depicted his struggle to understand what he was doing, and why. The second one is Riku's. I always thought of Riku as being more learned in what he is doing to himself, and more experienced. This will be his story of cutting in his past, his present, and his future.

     And yeah, I guess I should mention one more thing…my laziness as an authoress to update!! @_@ I really don't have an excuse for that one. I've been going through a hard point in my life lately and writing has been one of my last priorities. I am so sorry. If you guys want to flame me, I deserve every bit of every flame I get.

     Oh, and one more thing – huge, huge thanks to Kitana5 for their review. Yes, I did borrow their bit about "a familiar hell" and I included it in my story. I give them full credit for that whole bit. Kitana5, if it bothers you that I used some of your review for my story, please tell me and I'll immediately take it out. Thanks again. ^_^

     Anyways, if you guys have still stuck with me through this looooooooong period of no updates, then I love you forever! Please review ^_~ And please don't flame because of the cutting. If you don't understand how anyone could do that to themselves, and think I'm a sick bastard for writing such a story, then remember that I did warn you beforehand! ^_^ Though I guess I deserve them. So, thanks for reading, all! Till the next update (review if you want me to continue this story, and I will!), bye! ~PP