This story contains themes of depression, self-harm, and internalized homophobia.
They all thought he was vain. Conceited. But no one knew the real reason he spent so long in the bath.
The nights were always hard. His heart ached. He closed his eyes as felt the itch appear. The itch that needed to be soothed.
Some nights he gave in to the sin. He let his horrible, rotted brain take control of its most base urges. And afterward he sat on the cold tiled floor hugging his knees. His whole body seemed to throb in the aftermath and he covered his mouth in an effort to stifle dry heaving sobs. The guilt stabbed at his chest, twisting painfully, causing his breaths to come out in short hyperventilating gasps.
Other nights he drew a razor across his hip. He would press his fingers into the new cuts, bloodying his fingers and smearing the little droplets of blood across the old white scars of the past. The feeling of pain almost made him feel drunk, in a way. Like he was on top of the world and nothing could beat him.
A single candle, flickering softly, was his only witness. He would sink into the warm tub, the heat seeping into his body, soothing his aching muscles. Stinging his new cuts.
Maybe he was vain, he thought as he angrily scrubbed himself, rubbing his skin raw. His skin crawled constantly. Like he was never clean enough. He wasn't clean, in a way. His soul was black. He walked as a cursed, filthy man, worthy of nothing good in life. He deserved every miserable misfortune thrown his way.
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