Oliver woke to painful thighs and the strong, raw scent of dried blood. His back ached from the uncomfortable position it was curled into against the wet-room tiles. He grimaced as he pushed himself up into a better sitting position and cracked out the stiffness in his spine, breathing deeply to stretch out the cramped muscles across his rib cage, keeping his eyes purposefully averted from his legs.

Taking one more deep breath, Oliver looked down grimly to assess the damage. He clenched his jaw against the sight, anger welling in his chest. One of the five cuts was going to be a problem – that was immediately obvious. A thin white layer of fat followed by a gaping mouth of muscle tissue spread two centimetres thick and four inches wide, weeping sluggish white gunk that mingled with the few beads of blood that still oozed out.

He shuddered inwardly at the sight before smashing his head back against the wall with a loud crack. Fucking idiot. That was definitely going to be a problem, what with the severed muscle tissue. The blood loss probably wouldn't do him any favours either.

Why the fuck do I do this? The question rung loud and unanswered in his head. There has to be a pretty damn good reason why anyone would slice into their own flesh, and Oliver was sure that if he were to go to a psychiatrist they would come up with all sorts of reasons for him. But he didn't want to think about it. He hated every single self-inflicted scar upon his body; felt enormous shame and anger every time he allowed the images into his mind. No. He wouldn't think about his reasons. He just had to stop.

Hello Sorry for the gore!

I know these chapters are short but for some reason it just flows better… That's what my storywriter-gut says, anyway.

I hope you enjoy (maybe that's too happy a word for this kind of story?) this. Lemme know if you like it or if it needs any improvements! Xxx