Taking the Pain Away
Chapter 3
Words: 1,000+
Rated: M
tumblr; thefluffyrenegade
(I would like to note that I listened to "Where Have You Been" by Manchester Orchestra during the first part of this fic. It's a great band for feels!)
Cry kicked his compute chair away and stumbled into the bathroom with tears streaking down his cheeks, his hand sliding against the wall inside the door until he found the lightswitch. His eyelids were swollen and red with tears, pawing desperately at his face as he tried to scrub the weakness from himself, trying to force the tears away aggresively. When he saw his pitiful reflection in the mirror, self-loathing crept upon him, and he screamed into the mirror, voice full of rage, and hate.
"What the fuck are you looking at? You fucking faggot!" he sobbed and tore the cabinet door open, unsure of what he was looking for, but tying to find something. Each pill bottle, he read the label, throwing each back into the cabinet or onto the counter top. Something to help him sleep? Something to calm him dowm so he wouldn't have to suffer anymore...He found a bottle painkillers from a long forgotten injury, Vicodin, specifically Hydrocodone, and stopped pawing at his face long enough to realize that he had an entire bottle left.
Cry stard at the pill bottle for a long time before throwing them onto the fake marble counter and looked for something to crush one up with.
The brunette man leaned over the sink, messy hair falling into his face, as he crushed up the pill with the top of the prescription bottle, his sobs now turned into soft hiccups and sniffles. The broken pill made a satisfying crunching sound against the countertop and he flipped the bottle over, licking the powder he had reduced the medication to off of the lid of the bottle, before cringing in disgust at the horrible taste. After rifling around in one of the drawers for a moment longer, he found a piece of cardboard and rolled it up neatly before looking at himself in the mirror again. He looked terrified.
'Are you really about to do this, Cry? Are you sure?' mirror-Cry asked, watching real-Cry's movements closely. Mirror-Cry looked rather unbiased, as if he didn't even care if real-Cry did or didn't take the drugs. What did he know? He was just a reflection of the broken American leaning against the counter.
After a deep breath, he reaponded, "Yes. I am." leaning down close to the counter. He pressed the tube he had created up his nostril and snorted the yellow powder until almost none remained, hissing in pain and pawing at his nose. His eyes watered, turned pink from pain and he whimpered again until the pain subsided. The burning was intense, like fire, and he could taste the horrible vicodin dripping onto his tongue, melting in his mouth, but he kept the drugs down with great will power, gripping the counter-top until he had stopped shaking and could swallow the tears and breath easier.
Once the tears had stopped from both sadness and the drugs burning his nose, the first ones he had ever done, he sank down onto the toilet and shoved his sleeve up. He'd had friends before tell him cutting helped their pain by releasing endorphines and if he was going to hit rock bottom, he wanted to do it full blown. He had a box of old razor blades from a shaving razor he no longer owned, ones you were supposed to replace the blades for, but most of them were rusty with age. A sick glee flooded him whem he found a brand new one that was still wrapped in a small piece or cardboard and he ripped it open and placed it against his mid arm.
Cry took a few deep breaths before he was able to convince himself to drag the blade along his pale flesh, his hand shaking and his eyes closing as he broke skin. He cried out, his chin tilting up as if he was screaming at the ceiling itself, but it wasn't enough. The fresh blade made a clean, neat divet in the man's pale arm. It was sharper than he had through becauseblood began to pour from the wound and stain his skin.
As if possessed by some spirit other than his own, he raked the blade over the spot again and again, the wound growing deeper with each stike, until he had a two and a half inch mark spreading, swollen, angry and red. Blood dripped onto the pale tile floor but he didn't stop, marking himself again, higher. His breathing was rapid and he was shaking, making soft moans and hisses as he cut his own skin, whimpering with anger at his own weakness. He felt his arm burning, yet growing numb, and created once more a deep ridge in his skin before stopping, watching drops spilling from the injuries, red welling like water drops from a faucet and leaving behind a strak of red as they dripped from his wrist. He hiccuped and sniffed again, but didn't cry any more. He was growning numb. His entire body was numb.
A warm heat had spread throughout his entire body and his head was beginning to feel cloudy and relaxed, as if nothing in the world could hurt him. He tilted his head back and inhaled sharply before laughing, swaying where he sat.
This was so unlike Cry.
Cry, What are you doing?
He passed the mirror and growled, "I feel so much better. I feel so much better." He closed his eyes and whimpered as he went to his room, keeping his arm elevated on a shirt on the bed to keep his bed sheets from staining.
He slept better than ever before that night, his injured arm tucked underneath his pillow once the blood dried, Pewdie's hoodie wrapped around him, wreathing the American in his crushes sweet scent. He watched his phone beside him as it lit up with messages from his friends that he wouldn't respond to until morning.
A train could be heard in the distance. Cry fell asleep as the sun came up that morning and didn't wake up until late the next day.