WARNING!
There are graphic descriptions of self-harm in this chapter. If you do not want to read this chapter, skip to the notes at the end, and I'll summarise what happened.
WARNING!
There was that anger, again. It wasn't the sort that made you mad with rage, that you wanted to tear something apart. It was the sort where you begged yourself to understand. To know exactly why. Anything to tell yourself that from this moment onward everything would be fine. Peter allowed his anguish to bottle up inside himself, too tired to let it all out or seek somebody to talk to.
His breathing came in short, ragged breaths. Quick and fast, but every breath was an effort. All too soon he was gasping. He knew he was breathing, but none of it seemed to be getting to his head, his vision darkening and comprehension fading by the minute.
He wanted answers, but they never came. Always the 'These things happen, kid.' or the 'We'll always be here.' but never the answer. Never the reason. Maybe God had finally decided that he didn't deserve what little solace he had found in his life. He was choking on his own tears, but the pain of his own hands pulling at his hair was enough to ground him.
Every fibre of his being screamed at him to stop, and maybe even run away from it all, but nothing inside him told him that it would be okay. That nothing that changed mattered and he could continue living happily.
His new room felt disgusting to look at. Everything orderly, everything the same. Neat and peaceful, but Peter knew that wasn't how it was supposed to be. It wasn't supposed to be neat. It wasn't supposed to be orderly and it sure as hell wasn't supposed to be giving that calm aura.
His first hand experience in life had taught him enough. Nothing was supposed to be correct. Peter found himself tearing it all apart, he didn't want to look at it. Peter got to his knees and destroyed it all. The vase was thrown across the room, shattering, the bedsheets were torn of the bed and shredded.
He didn't want to see everything perfect because not everything was perfect. If everything was perfect than he'd still have his loving Aunt May… that didn't deserve to go, that was supposed to live a long and peaceful life.
Before he realised exactly what he was doing, the room had been torn up to shreds. The bed looked like a chainsaw had been through it, the books were now in more pieces than he could care to count. Looking over his abrupt handiwork, the satisfaction of destroying it all slowly flittered through Peter's heart and mind.
He suddenly felt strong again, like he could do anything, and if he could, he'd do it all again. As quick as it comes, the satisfaction inside him leaves. It was only momentary but those few seconds were heavenly to Peter, maybe even a euphoric change to his usually depressed like state.
He wants it back, and he'd do anything. He doesn't want order, he wants the control and satisfaction it gave him. He wants a grasp of everything he can't have. He yearns for the feeling, the momentary high he got. It wasn't much to look back on but at the time, everything felt right.
A razor. He has a razor in the bathroom. His right judgement leaves him as all he can think about is achieving that heavenly feel. He's sitting on the edge of the torn up bed, and waits for the temporary cloud fogging his thought process to clear, even just a little.
Peter almost runs to the walk in bathroom, stumbling along the way as if he's lost his own balance. He tears open the cupboard doors, almost off their hinges, and he frantically looks for a razor, his vision swims when he finally gets hold of it.
It's stuck in the handle, and his intuition isn't even there anymore, replaced by the gnawing in his stomach. He fumbles around, impatient and the blade finally breaks free from the handle. With the hand he used to mangle it out, he grasps it, feeling the adrenaline run back through his veins as his mind looks at it greedily.
The hand that tore out the blade is already bleeding and covered in blood, as the fight with the handle of the razor was not a pretty, or a patient one. Peter props himself back up against the bathroom wall. His entire frame is shaking, and the weight makes it hard for him to hold himself up. He can't stop the shuddering like appearance it gives him.
He just wants everything orderly to be gone, everything resembling peace to be out of his sight. He just wants to yell at somebody, to see if they can even compare themselves to the pain and anguish he feels. He just wants-
Suddenly, everything stops. Time stops and Peter makes the first cut. One deliberate and intricate motion later and a thin red line soon appears on his left wrist and clarity slowly returns to him. The moment doesn't last much longer, so he puts forth the blade again for another cut as to refresh the feeling. Then another, and then another, then another. He doesn't know how much more he does, but when he looks back down, it makes him fill up with anxiety and dread.
Looking down at his wrist, noticing that its become what he's been trying to avoid. It becomes orderly. The lines are too straight, too perfect, too even and too spaced out. It doesn't look like a mess, it looks deliberate. It looks thought out and planned. But that was a lie. It wasn't thought out and planned. It was a spur of the moment decision and if there's one thing Peter hates more than lying was an illusion.
His left wrist was just an illusion of order, when in fact, Peter felt far from it. The order in his wrist begs him to stop. Inwardly, something in Peter's mind told him that this was madness, that cutting open his wrist for the blood to spurt out and pool on the surface of his skin. The voice told him that this was insane, but everything else inside of Peter told him to continue.
So he did. This time, he didn't use the deliberate and delicate motions like before but rapidly brought forth the blade down against his skin, no moment of hesitation. Just seeing the neat lines turn into a mutilated patch of bloody skin was placating to his senses.
He seems to forget everything and just sits there in the silence. Peter thinks back on everything and nothing at all. He's so concentrated, yet if you asked him what he was thinking about, he wouldn't know where to start.
A piercing pain makes the clarity return, and he's snapped out of the tranquil state. Looking back at his arm, it makes him feel disgusting. The blood isn't a beautiful red, anymore. It was now an angry red. Not that it had changed colour, it was more of Peter shifting his perspective.
It's dripping down his arm, and onto the floor. Clean white tiles now tainted in his own blood, thickly dropping slowly. It's in a morbid like curiosity that he watches it trickle down, now focusing on the drip rather than the stinging pain. Peter wonders where that feeling went, the tranquil and unknowing high.
The darkness that had been teasing the corner of his vision finally starts to take over. A different reality lulling him in. He can't refuse, now. He just feels so… light. He feels like he could fly.
As he shuts his eyes and lays back against the tiles of the bathroom wall, he distantly hears a panicked voice, (from the sound and tone, its masculine) scream his name out in horror, but he's much to tired to care at all.
Peter finally gives into the looming offer of unconsciousness.
wow, this was a shorter than usual chapter, but here is the summary of what happened!
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Peter doesn't want everything to give the impression of perfection because that is not what he feels real life is like. He tears up his room at Stark Tower and feels peaceful and satisfied after doing so, but the feeling is only momentary and he demands more. All good judgement has left him at this point and he starts mutilating his left wrist when he starts falling unconscious from excessive blood flow. When he starts drifting out of consciousness, he hears a masculine voice yell his name in horror.