*Features mature scenes containing blood and self-mutilation that might be upsetting or triggering for some readers. Set after the events of "A Day in the Narrows," featuring Bruce's further downward spiral into the darkness.*
The incident was at a party. The first time though, I was alone in the bathroom with my father's old razor and the sleeve of my sweater pushed up to my elbow. However, the party was like a new standing, warping the memory of the first time, making it seem almost innocent. When I first did it--alone in the bathroom with my father's razor, it was nothing but a couple scrapes across my skin. If you could call them that. It was strange, how my father's instrument had been so pure and clean. Untouched, as if he'd changed it out but never got a chance to use it before he passed. Like he shaved with the old one, scraping over the stubble of his face--nicked himself once and then noticed the razor needed a change. He must have finished up before changing it. Tossing the old one in the trash, which was taken out that day. Long gone now.
Some of my self-inflictions were deep but not the initial intention. I tried to do it deeply in the beginning, but I failed. I was scared and nervous and when the razor bit its teeth down upon me I had to pull back because it hurt. Because I could feel. Even as I told myself that a bullet to the chest hurt a hell of a lot worse than a deep cut. So I cut myself a little, just to try it. Dragging the silver teeth over my skin as normally as I could manage.
My skin licked its teeth and opened itself up so the colours could kiss another. The blood came up from my arm slowly, filling up like a sink before spilling over. It ran a trail over my forearm in red. Pooling a bit on the white marble of the bathroom sink. Alfred caught me shortly after that. I jumped, surprised and scared for getting caught doing something I know I shouldn't. The razor abandoned my fingers with equal fright, finding safety on the floor with a clang. Spitting blood in its fall. Alfred said not a word and cleaned me up immediately. Respectfully putting my father's shaving instrument back in its proper place.
Now I am alone and remembering the party I went to with Grace at Tommy's. It was the same as always, boring with too many people, too many drugs and too much alcohol. Everyone was having fun, and I... I had to find a way to have as much drink in my body so that I was able to try and have fun. Though, I wasn't having fun. I wasn't even happy. It was all fake, like a placebo. But I knew that the more I drank, the more I could pretend, the more I could lie. Especially to myself. So I took all my problems and all of my pain and made myself become numb with every shot, every bottle. Down my throat filling all the emptiness with buzz and excitement. I'm not sure what number I had consumed by the centre of the night, but I know I ended up on the couch, having drank enough to become consumed by my surroundings yet not care about what was going on. So clearly a room filled with blind gluttony.
It wasn't until Grace--who was sitting beside me--rolled her body on top of mine that finally caught some bit of my attention. The weight of her legs squeezing against mine on both sides was a bit uncomfortable but I tried to forced myself to enjoy it like the other strangers around me with people cradled in their lap. I thought she was going to kiss me, our noses close to touching and I prepared myself for our lips to mate--but they didn't. She leaned away from me and clutched her purse to her chest like I'd both flattered and offended her. Yet she was laughing, so I laughed too. She pulled something shiny out from the pocket of her bag... at first believing, it was a set of keys or a piece of jewellery. Yet I came to realise it was nothing of the sort, but a razor blade. A bright, shiny razor blade.
She flashed a smile that went along with the blade's shell, copycatting the spark and the gleam. And for a moment I felt my mask slip, though I was smiling it wasn't the smile that reflected Grace's but the smile of a childish boy who was too ignorant about the obvious things.
"What's that for," I asked her.
She didn't answer me. At least… not with words. She reached down slowly between ourselves and I moved uncomfortably with the corners of my mouth beginning to drop in a frown. I was nervous and I didn't know what to expect--afraid she might touch me; but instead, she grabbed onto one of my hands sitting idly in my lap. Our fingers became laced together as she brought the cuff of my sleeve to her mouth and began fiddling with the button between her teeth. I can't exactly remember why I decided to dress in an attire so formal, but Grace seemed to be having a good time toying with the clear button against her tongue. Her legs were grinding against mine as she did this and I was beginning to wonder if she was doing it on purpose. Eventually, she succeeded in unhooking the bottom from its reservation, wide-eyed as if I was supposed to be impressed with her ability to manoeuvre her mouth in such a way. However, I was confused. Was I supposed to be impressed?
"Ta-da…" she mouthed, her voice sounded very far away. I believe I somehow managed to throw out the word "impressive," yet my brain keeps telling me that's probably a lie. I could be wrong, but I just can't remember.
After that, Grace pushed the cuff of my sleeve all the way down to my elbow, hold my arm close to her face. She procured the blade once again and there it had become honest with me what was going to happen. I should have reacted, should have moved… should have brought my hand up to her to stop her. Should have pushed her off of me. Should have opened my own mouth to stop it… But the words "no" and "stop" were too heavy on my tongue. Weighing it down to the bottom of my jaw… too weak and over encumbered to articulate the right words. My body had shifted again in strange discomfort, my skin breaking down in a sweat… but my pulse… my pulse somehow seemed to cry out for the mouth of the blade. Seeming to beg for its touch… breathing up and down slowly while creating a heavy thump that appeared to grow louder over the sound of Tommy's stereo music. Deep down I remembered why I was there and that my body wanted to punish myself for everything I had done. Even knowing that, I was afraid. I wanted to scream but my lips stayed pursed shut even when Grace brought the sharp edge of the razor down to my arm--just centimetres below my veins--and the cold metal clamped down hard over my skin like an animal, chewing my flesh to create an opening for the blood to run down hot. A cry found its escape from the back of my throat, though I didn't hear it over the music. The mark wasn't too deep, just deep enough for the blood to run up quickly and build. Then Grace put her lips over the cut and began sucking the blood from my wound. Her lips pressed around the mark, her hand holding my wrist and her body digging into mine. Suddenly I felt like I was drifting… sinking away into a deep blue ocean. Further away from everybody else. I closed my eyes and succumbed to tiredness. Grace… her lips and her touch where fading further away too… the music was going soft… my sight fading deep into darkness…
… Until someone shouted from above the water where my head was submerged. I had to come up for air in spite of not remembering how to breathe properly. My lungs somehow found the way and I opened my eyes as Grace turned her head backwards in a blur. A thick line of claret running down the cut she had made, a circle around where her lips were. I hoped she would do something to fix it, yet the trail made its way all the way down to my inner elbow and then some. Grace abandoned me, the weight of her legs being taken away made me grateful and I no longer felt heavily weighed on. Able to move I hastily bunched my sleeve onto my arm trying to apply as much pressure as I could.
That's all I can remember. No recollection of how I found my way home or into bed with my pyjamas. The covers pulled over my head and the curtains closed to the same frequency so when the sun tried to raise over the skyscrapers and the clouds to reach me--it could not find me because I did not want to be seen. And when I awoke this morning I was struck with a sense of fear and strange sickness, believing I was not alone. My fingers shuffled themselves around the bed and I was relieved to find it empty of anyone else but just myself.
For a strange reason, I was almost instantaneously brought back to that one moment… and the moment before when I had cut myself as a child--the place where Grace inflicted me pulsing like a purposeful memory. How I was so angry… The blood, the sight and smell were so distinct. Like wet metal. When I saw it, all times I couldn't help but associate it with the places I've seen it before, which made me angrier. Everything came flooding back at such an overwhelming rate that I couldn't help but shake uncontrollably and think of the quickest release I could find. My phone nowhere to be seen, alcohol down the steps and in the bottom cabinet in the dining hall but I couldn't risk seeing Alfred. I had to run.
So I came here, in the quiet and emptiness of my parent's bathroom. Unused and untouched at my request. There was no reason for the place of my parents to be tampered with. It's unnecessary. I reached for my father's side of the mirror, a desperate reached for the safety razor sleeping on the shelf. It woke with a growl… I shut the mirror with a gentle close, and without thought or question, I brought the now rusting blade to my neck, digging deep into my skin, deep into the jugular vein. Tearing the skin across my throat spilling the blood in a downpour of crimson over my throat and shirt. I'm soaked in it. It's like I can finally breathe again.
I glance down and see the razor still between my fingers. Untouched, untainted, same as my neck, still clean and pure. Deep into my eyes, there is a person… I look down at the razor again, contemplating my next action I realize that I don't care what it is. I don't care how much I know the pain is going to hurt, I don't care about the mess I know I'm going to make and I don't care the irrational and wrongdoing of my choice. I just want to hurt.
A knock on the bathroom door causes me to avert my attention. It's Alfred. He knocks twice.
"Master B? Master Bruce are you in there?"
He goes silent, then knocks again. I don't answer him, turn back to the blade. Tuck a few fingers under the sleeve of my sweatshirt and yank it over my elbow. Alfred knocks again, calls my name. I bring the sharp cut of silver just close enough to the blue veins hiding under my skin. My teeth grit themselves in discomfort as the razor pokes a hole in my skin under my rule, chews out a line. I moan but it's low, choke out a breath when blood oozes from the escape, runs down the side of my arm in a desperate break to freedom. I remember what I did… and the small tiny-seeming laceration on my arm reminds me of what he did. The mark created against Alex's neck… I recall and again I am digging into my arm poking and ripping flesh. I remember his body being thrown like something so oblivious to the real world. Trying to catch my breath I'm screaming, pounding on the marble of the counter, banging on the glass, splitting it into pieces. Blood is failing…
I stop. Peer down. Again, standing still at the sink with blood dripping from my wounds. The razor is wet, and so is the counter. I squeeze the razor in my fingers, pinch it into my arm. Deep… I press the pain down harder.