A/N: okay this fic is going to change direction here. There are going to be mentions of self-harm and depression, so if you can't handle those, you've been warned.
Your name is Rufioh Nitram, and you are a hole.
You're lying on your bed, purposefully ignoring your homework, and your phone. The weekend has started, and you could not be more relieved; you hated being out and about in public. Everyone seemed to want a piece of you for something, for things you hated thinking about, and you were tired of it.
It was Saturday. On Saturdays, the guys from your basketball team or your "friends" would invite you out to party, but you didn't want any of it. Not today. Not tonight. You had piled your books and papers on the end of your bed, with every intention of digging into all your overdue papers and projects that your teachers had mercifully given you more time for. The thought of being even more overdue on projects with your already low grade caused you to groan and kick your papers on your bed and roll over, comforter in hand.
You couldn't take it. You were here again. You were sinking, and sinking fast into a place in your head you never liked to be. Usually, you could halt your downward spiral by drinking so much you couldn't control what you did or said, or doing whatever drugs people handed to you, or fucking Horrus hard enough that you didn't care anymore.
Because you didn't. You didn't care.
You had settled yourself down on your bed with your books in tow, ready to attempt to dig yourself out of the grave you had tricked yourself into, when your phone started going off, telling you you had texts. You had checked them eagerly; Kurloz had texted you a couple times, which caused your uneven heart to beat just a little faster. You didn't love him- you didn't love Horrus, you didn't love even yourself. You loved no one. Thoughts of the boy you had dated caused you to smile, but nothing more. It was just a passing fancy, right?
Instead of Kurloz texting you, it was Horrus, and you instantly remembered what a terrible person you were.
"8=D Hello, are you busy this weekend? Do you want to hang out?"
"8=D Do you already have plans? I understand completely if you are already otherwise engaged."
"8=D I just thought it would be nice if we could see each other."
"8=D Are you alright?"
"8=D Please, speak with me. I miss you. I have STRONG feelings of regret if I have wronged you, and I offer you my humblest apologies."
"8=D Rufioh?"
The messages had trickled into your phone over the course of an hour, more than long enough to derail your thought process into a negative one. When you got like this, you didn't come out for hours. Sometimes even a day. After a while, you stopped checking your messages. You couldn't look at the things Horrus was saying anymore.
It didn't break your heart to see Horrus like this. It should. Horrus was the closest fucking thing you had to a real friend, and here you were, screwing with him every possible way. Your heart wasn't broken. You didn't harbor any regret or remorse for Horrus, like you should. You didn't care. You just. Didn't. Care.
After a while, Horrus gave up. Usually he did- he would send you a barrage of messages and posts, and then he would stop, seeing that you weren't responding. You just had to wait it out.
As you had expected, your phone stopped making any noise for a good while, and you allowed yourself to breathe a little more. You forgot to breathe occasionally, and it made your head hurt when you did that to yourself. You laid on your bed with your chest heaving for air, and you tried to purge yourself of the usual thoughts you had of hurting and hating yourself. It was starting to work- your lungs seemed to even themselves out and you relaxed a little, then your phone went off again. You frowned- it couldn't have been Horrus. It wasn't like him to keep it up for more than an hour or so.
It was an unrecognized number. Broken Japanese insulted and patronized you, calling you a piece of shit, a whole, a slut. That you were the worst person, and that you had every right to hate yourself, and that you should break it off with Horrus, before he decided to break you.
That was it. You shoved your phone off your bed, uncaring if it got dented or scratched. You had no idea how Damara kept getting your number, even when you changed it often and blocked and ignored her. She seemed to know every way to get under your shallow hide and stretch you thin. Thin enough to get you to represent her sex and her drugs and her sadness across your skin in bruises and broken skin in places you never let anyone see.
Sometimes, you let Damara push you down and fuck you when you were blazed. She didn't hurt like Horrus did- he was too strong for you, and even though you knew he never meant it, he always pulled your hair, rode you too hard, bit you enough to draw blood, pressed deep enough to tear or clot your blood. Damara was soft and welcoming, with the opiates of smoke and full curves to lull you into thinking you didn't care enough get into her. Her words hurt more than any mark Horrus ever left you, and you weren't sure which lover was worse anymore.
Slut. Bitch. Cunt. I'm going to use you again this weekend. Where do you want to meet this time? I like fucking in your baby brother's van. He's cute, kind of like you, but he's not a fucking whore like you are. Too bad.
Your heart wasn't broken.
You had tried. You had tried to tell Horrus no, you couldn't do it anymore. Occasionally, a part of your conscience or some misguided morals bubbled up in your maw, and you would spew apologies. You told him you were sorry, and that you wouldn't do it anymore. You had never told him that you still slept with Damara, or that sometimes you ended up underneath or on top of someone you didn't recognize at a party. Marking up your bedposts with a stranger was easier than apologizing to the man you considered your best friend. Damara liked to remind you of how sick your insides probably were, and she held it against you, told you that if you didn't fuck her, she would tell Horrus.
You were a hole. You couldn't describe yourself in any other way. You laughed with people and smiled at who you were supposed to consider a friend, but you hated it. You hated them. You didn't have any close friends, because you kept everyone at arms' length. You fucked anyone who got close enough to you, or you made them sad enough to leave you, and then you kept it all inside. You swallowed and gutted yourself with their words and touches, promising yourself that you would be okay.
There was a pedestal you were placed upon. Something about the way you looked or walked told people you were gaping wide, ready for them to wrap themselves around you and squeeze. You were surrounded with strangers who were supposed to be friends, because you had isolated yourself. You fucked your best friend and lied to him, and then you kept it inside of you, where you thought maybe your heart was supposed to be and let all the rot fester. At some point, you had stopped hating everyone, because this was all your fault. You hated yourself instead, and you cut, you impaled yourself mentally and physically until you convinced yourself that you were strong enough to take it. You could take whatever they gave you, and you were okay. This was how the world worked. You didn't need anyone. There's no such thing as love. Nobody needs you.
You are a hole, and your heart isn't broken. You suck up the feelings and reciprocations of anyone who gets close to you and you keep it in a place dark and deep enough nobody can see.
A boy with a painted face and a loose sweater comes to mind, and panic rises in your chest. Kurloz seems sofamiliar. Had you already fucked him at a party? Had you fucked his friends? Had you ever partied with him or anyone he knew? Without thinking much about it, you drew your blunt nails over your inner arm and squeezed.
Your heart isn't broken. It can't get broken.
You never gave your heart out to anyone anymore, out of fear that they would use your feelings against you, like Damara had done, like you had done to her. If you kept it inside with everything else, it wouldn't hurt like everything else did. Love was a fairytale, kind of like all those fables you and Tavros liked to read, wrapped up in all your shojo manga and anime. It wasn't real.
Even if love isn't real, you feel something lodged deep in your bones pull and give, tearing under the weight you keep held over the bones of your shoulders. All the lies you had drawn began to tower over you, hovering and pressing close up against you, fluttering and moving with your every action, wrapped up deep into your nervous system and marrow like a pair of wings. All built up and grown out for everyone to see all beautiful like, presented to everyone, letting them know you were a lie. You were a fable, a promise, placed high up where everyone seemed to want to be a part of your lies and help your wings spread.
You are a hole. Holes aren't beautiful, they don't have wings; they're dug to hide bodies and mistakes, and that's what you're composed of. You are built upon your reputation of everyone you've slept with and lied to, precariously teetering over the smile you give everyone, contrasting with how ugly you really are.