Hey everyone! Here's Chapter 25! Hope you enjoy it!
Bbrae-4ever fanfics: Yeah, he's starting to realize just how serious his situation is. And Cyborg's outburst really help to put it in perspective for him. I'm glad you liked that chapter! The climax of the story is about to hit and things are going to get a bit rocky, but I hope you'll continue to enjoy it! There's approximately 11 chapters remaining, and I think you'll like what I have set up in them! :)
RPGPersona: That's definitely true; no matter how much he wants to isolate himself, his friends will not allow it in the slightest. And definitely, I agree. Crying is a great release of emotion. And a constant IV line/feeding tube would likely become a requirement if it continues, one that Cyborg made very clear to Beast Boy. And I would agree; it was a mistake to let him out on that last mission, and the team can't afford to make that same mistake again for the foreseeable future. And Raven's presence is usually helpful and comforting, so it should be good for him. Hope you're enjoying the story! :)
Please keep reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! :)
The atmosphere in the tower had been dismal, to say the least, after what had happened. After Beast Boy had gotten stitched up and rehydrated by Cyborg, he was allowed to leave the infirmary. Luckily, when Cyborg had brought food to the changeling when he woke up, he ate it. He was slow about it, but nonetheless ate it, which satisfied the team. After he left the infirmary, he went straight to his room and locked himself in. He made a point to come out on occasion to please his teammates, but otherwise remained isolated.
They had been shocked to see how damaged his arms and legs were becoming. It seemed as if whenever new wounds were discovered, they were increasingly more severe and dangerous, which concerned the team greatly. Even though Raven had taken his blade a few weeks back, they weren't ignorant enough to believe that that would be the end of his self-injury. They knew better than that. But they were still unprepared for the extent of damage to which they saw. They knew that they needed to do something and fast, but they had no idea where to start. Words seemed to not be getting through with him, and they knew of no other methods. They didn't want to force anything upon him, but the possibility of that happening was growing more and more likely with each passing day. They couldn't just sit around idly and hope that it would get better.
They did think he was making improvements though. He would leave his room for meals, which forced him to be social. He had no more fainting spells, and was finally becoming nourished once again. He wasn't really putting weight back on, but they didn't expect him to. They were just glad to see him willingly eating again and outside of his dark room. But, this of course never lasted long. As soon as the meal was done, he would escape back into his depressive solitude with the door locked behind him. On occasion, Raven would phase through his door to see him. Sometimes, it was to just simply be social with him. She missed seeing him regularly and just being with him. More often though, it was to check in on him. Usually, he would be asleep on his bed in a messy tangle of covers. There was always, without fail, a slight tinge of blood in the air. She had tried to search for his new blades, but was never able to find them. Wherever they were kept, they were well concealed.
Despite what improvements Beast Boy was seemingly making on the outside, on the inside, the war worsened. He felt like his life was crumbling apart piece by piece, and he had no idea what to do about it. He knew how much his friends cared about him, and that meant the world to him. But no amount of caring words and loving embraces could erase the demons from inside his mind. It wasn't something that would just go away. It's not something that could be fixed through friendship and love. He wished it worked that way, though. It would make things a hell of a lot easier. He also knew what Raven had said to him was true, but it still seemed impossible. He knew that it wouldn't last forever, but it didn't feel that way. Whatever rational thoughts that his mind contained seemed to be foggy and pushed far, far away from the surface. He felt like he was drowning, destined to be in this constant state of misery for the entirety of his existence. But despite all the intense pain that he felt, there was also an intense numbness that spread throughout his chest. It felt as if he couldn't feel emotion, or perhaps the emotion took too much energy and effort to feel. But, of course, the emotion would come roaring back after the periods of numbness. It felt like a sword being ripped down his body, tearing himself in two. It was quickly becoming unbearable, and he feared that there was no going back at this point.
He felt the pressure rising in his chest, growing more and more uncomfortable.
I've been like this my whole life. I barely even know what it's like to not feel this way. It's always been there, even if it's just looming in the distance, he thought to himself.
He was sitting on his bed as he stared up at the ceiling. He felt tired like he always did, but no matter how much he tried, sleep would not come to him. It was as if his mind refused to be shut off, and rather it chose to intrude deeply on his dark thoughts.
Who am I kidding? Raven doesn't know what she's talking about. None of them do. None of them understand what I'm going through. It's never going to get better.
He started getting fidgety. His mind wouldn't shut off, and it was driving him mad. Despite how much he loathed the periods of numbness, he prayed for one now. Sometimes, the emptiness that came with numbness was preferable over the heaviness that came with emotion. He gripped the sides of his head tightly as if to force out his thoughts. He rolled back and forth, trying to escape them. But he, of course, was not granted that pleasure.
He rolled off the side of the bed, hitting the floor hard. After a moment of being dazed, he quickly got a hold of his surroundings. His room was messy and dark, and it reeked of blood. He peered out the window, seeing the nightlife that was held behind it. It was just past midnight. Most everyone was asleep, but of course, some people never rested in Jump.
The fidgeting continued, accompanied by a swelling pressure. He couldn't sit still; he felt like he needed to do something, as if he craved it. He went to his bedside table and pulled out the blade from it. He held the piece of metal in his hand and studied it. It glistened in the lights that poured in from the city. There was dried blood covering it, and some parts were beginning to rust. He knew he should've been concerned about the rust getting in his skin, but he didn't care. He pulled up his sleeve and began slicing away. It almost became routine at this point. He barely noticed it anymore since he was so used to it. Usually, this would have fulfilled his urge, but it didn't. And that frustrated him.
He rolled up the other sleeve and did it more, this time deeper. At first, he tried to avoid the areas with stitches in them since they were still healing, but eventually, he threw caution to the wind and ignored them completely, instead choosing to cut through them. It felt odd to slice through them, but satisfying nonetheless. Everything about self-harm was horrible, but perhaps the most dangerous thing about it was the constant need to intensify it. Eventually, shallow cuts would no longer be satisfying. More cuts and deeper wounds would be needed to satisfy that urge. But then, of course, those would eventually no longer be satisfying as well.
The blood dripped from his arms and onto the floor. The urge was increasing. He felt like he needed to jump out of his skin and escape his body. The scent of blood filled his nose. It used to be overpowering for him considering his sensitive smell, but he had since grown used to its presence.
He set the bloodied blade down and went to his closet. He felt as if his skin was crawling, itching, craving destruction that he couldn't provide nearly enough of. His mind was spinning and he was starting to lose full awareness of his surroundings. Everything was colliding and melding with its surroundings. Noises seemed distant and incomprehensible. Lights swirled around. He was sure not all the lights he saw were real, but he paid little attention to it. He needed to do something and fast. It was as if he didn't know what he needed to do, but his body and mind did, so it took over. He felt as if he was simply floating, detached from the world. His mind screamed at him.
When he arrived at his closet, he began to rummage around its contents in search of the knife he had hidden. Perhaps the knife was what he needed. It could, of course, provide deeper wounds than the pencil sharpener blades. And the pain would be different. Maybe it would be enough. He soon found the knife, but also found something else. His hands latched onto a rope that was hidden away in his closet. He didn't know how it had gotten there or how long it had been stored there, but it didn't matter to him. He removed both the knife and the rope from his closet and returned to his bed, setting the latter down next to him.
He sliced the knife blade through his skin, carving the flesh. The pain was much different, and the wounds were much deeper. His green skin was barely noticeable underneath the crimson that was pooling. He felt as if he was losing his mind, losing his grip on reality. He began laughing, but wasn't completely aware of it. Like the noises of the city, this too seemed distant and incomprehensible. His laughter soon became muddled with sobs as he continued to slice the knife through his skin. The knife dropped from his hands, too slippery from the blood to maintain a steady grip on its handle. It clattered to the ground, splattering tiny speckles of blood onto his face. Before he knew it, his hands were clutched tightly around the rope and he knew what to do.