TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM Mentions of past self-harm and mildly graphic depiction. PLEASE DON'T READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU. If you missed my last little spiel I will be putting warnings at the beginning of every chapter from now on.
Barry couldn't breathe.
His whole body was shaking and his chest tightened, his throat closing up and his breaths coming in shuddering gasps. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't get anything straight. All he knew was the panic was eating him alive, wrapping around his neck like a rope, and he was not going to get that cavity filled, he was not going. They'd have to tie him up and hold him there, and that was if they could catch him first. They would not catch him.
Needles seemed to dance in front of his eyes. Barry fumbled with his key until he managed to get it in the lock, and then he burst into his apartment, shutting it quickly behind him. He tripped over a pair of sneakers on his way in, and then he was in his bedroom. He was there before he realized he had used his speed. He gripped his head with his hands, fingers going through his hair.
"Get a grip," he thought to himself, but it didn't stop the barrage of images. Needles, restraints – oh he could just see himself, held down to a dentist's chair, screaming while they drilled into his skull – they'd done it before, it wasn't really that far off. Not again.
They'll figure it out, he thought, they'll figure it out, but the words weren't helping. Barry paced his room. He tried to slow his breathing. He was getting dizzy, his vision already tunneled in and adrenaline spinning in his blood. He couldn't calm down.
He burst into the bathroom, throwing the cold water on in the sink. He dipped his wrists under the stream, and then splashed some on his face. It wasn't helping. He had to grab onto the edges of the sink. He was going to throw up. He was going to die. They were going to drill into his skull, drill straight through his teeth and stick him up like a pincushion, pumping drugs into him that wouldn't do a damn thing.
Barry screamed, a sound that came out through his teeth and broke in a sob at the end. He splashed more water on his face, furious and terrified, tears leaking from his eyes, one, then two, then the whole barrage and he couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't stop crying and he couldn't think and he needed it to stop – he needed it to stop right now – the panic crawled under his skin, stuck him just like the needles, all over, filling every crevice of his mind – he couldn't get away, he couldn't make it stop.
His hands trembled in front of him, shaking up and down, then vibrating, and back again. He banged one down on the counter, fingers scrambling. His heart felt like a jackhammer. It was going to explode.
He wasn't thinking. He didn't remember opening up the cabinet. All he knew was his fingers were on the shelves and they were shaking so bad, so bad. He knocked over a bottle of shaving cream and his tooth brush. They clattered against the sink. He didn't hear it. His hand was on the razor. He was taking it apart. It took him three tries before he was able to grab the razor blade between his forefinger and thumb, and even then he was still trembling. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He needed it to stop, anything for it to stop, anything to make the panic ebb, anything to make it stop.
And it happened so fast. His fingers on the cabinet shelves, the razor blade in his hand, and then there was blood on his wrist, bright red blood with the blade in his hand and suddenly, miraculously, he could breathe.
Everything went quiet and Barry became acutely aware of the sound of his breaths, in and out and slowing down, mercifully slowing down.
He sank to the ground. Barry stared at his wrist. There was only one cut, not deep, blood just beading up on the edges. He took the blade, and carefully, much slower, drew another line. He breathed in deeply. It barely hurt at all, and the pain was a tiny burn that was followed by a rush of calm that swept over his body in waves. His hands stilled. He made another cut. Then another.
By the time he made the last cut, the first one was already gone. They faded so fast. He put the razor down. It clicked against the tile floor. Barry leaned his head back and closed his eyes, exhaling.
And then came the wash of guilt.
Oh, God, not again, not again. Barry squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't seriously do that, did he? He opened his eyes. Yep, the blade was still on the ground. And yep those were cuts on his wrist, the ones healing right now. Yep, he really did do that. Not a dream. Not a panic-induced hallucination. Real cuts. Real skin. Real razor blade. Oh, he was so screwed.
He had been fourteen. He was angry. It was a glass. He banged it a bit too hard on the counter, and next thing he knew there were shards in his hand, but instead of miserable pain there had come a brief calm that seemed to ripple through him. Cue experimentation, and soon afterwards he was hiding razor blades in his bedroom. Needless to say, Joe found out, and after some shouting matches, a new therapist, and several months of vain attempts to hide cuts and blades, Barry had managed to quit.
Now he was staring at his wrist, the blood already disappearing, not entirely believing himself that this had really happened. He started to tremble all over again, but this time he was up in a second. He put the razor blade back, cleaned up all evidence of blood, and shut the door, sitting down on the couch and staring at his own skin.
I mean sure, he had relapsed before, but – oh, God, when was the last time? Barry had to think for a second – sixteen? Seventeen? He didn't remember. Did that stint freshman year in college count? It had been years – years.
"It's fine," he told himself. He was fine. It was already gone. It was like it never happened. Never happened. There would be no scars, no marks. It was fine.
Except he already wanted it back.
No, he didn't. He was fine. It didn't even happen. He looked down at his wrist. The marks were already gone.
God, that was fast.
He forced down the stab of disappointment at that.
"Never happened," he said to himself. He turned the TV on.
So in case you're wondering I decided to incorporate the self-harm element for a couple of reasons. A) I think it can fit really well with the storyline, b) I had a bunch of ideas for it, and c) I think it's pretty probably that Barry would encounter some serious issues after, you know, his mother being murdered and all, not to mention his dad going to jail. There will be more on what happened when he was fourteen later, when he first cut himself, but I wanted to do a little explanation of it in this chapter. Should have more up soon. Tell me what you think!
Oh and I know, I lied, no comfort in this chapter – next one I promise!