Chapter 6 - About To Do Something Foolish
Edgeworth holds the knife in his palm against his wrist vertically.
This is not the first time he has done this. He traces the scar from when he was young and still being parented by Von Karma. That, he tells himself, was due cause. That was a valid reason to want to kill himself. Being under that amount of pressure and mental abuse from a young age, after his actual father who had loved him dearly was ripped from his arms and he was left with the belief that he had done it, that was reason enough to want it to end. This was not.
At the time, he had thought it was stupid. "I can deal with this," he remembers telling himself. "It would be stupid to kill myself over something so trivial." He remembers this vividly, if only because he is telling himself the same thing now. In hindsight, he knows he was wrong. Now, however, he believes himself to be correct. At one point, there was a voice of reason in the back of his mind. It would tell him what he knew to be true. "You don't really believe that," it would say, "You know you'll be okay in the end. You'll learn to deal with it, you'll grow up and mature and have more control over it."
Now, as a full-grown adult of 24, he has lost this voice of reason. Instead of maturing, he feels like he has receded into a state far backwards then that of when he was 10. In this moment, it is easy to disregard all his accomplishments, even the ones that he held closest to him day after day, the ones that prevented him from killing himself until now. They are nothing, Miles thinks, and he is not good enough.
He knows he can do better, and that's what hurts. It would be different if he were doing his best and still couldn't do it. At least he would be doing his best and he could feel the sense of pride that came with giving something your all. But now, he is in the fetal position on his cold, bathroom tiles at 1:26 am, alone because Phoenix is sick and puking with the flu, and he cannot for the life of him figure out what is stopping him from doing what he knows he is capable of doing. He knows he can do better, but he can't seem to get himself to do it. He thinks what Phoenix would say; that this is not his fault, that he's been through a lot and has a right to his emotions, that it's hard to keep the motivation up day by day, and that he's made it this far, that he is trying, and that's something. He knows that Phoenix would be right in all of this. However, he does not believe it for himself, so that information is worthless to him at this very moment, the moment that determines if he ends his own life.
Edgeworth knows he won't die. He knows that the second his vision starts to get fuzzy, he'll panic, just like he did the first time, and call Phoenix just like he had called Franziska when he had tried this 12 years ago. He's pathetic, he tells himself. He is freaking out over practically nothing, a case that he can't morally justify prosecuting and he doesn't want to do the paperwork. It's easy, he tells himself: fill it out like you've done time and time before. But he can't seem to get the motivation to do it and hates himself for it. He'll hate himself whether he does it or not, he knows, because if he does it, it will be 4 am and he will get two hours of restless sleep and have wasted time and the next day will be hell. If not, well, here he is.
It gets to him; the little things add up until it's all too much and he can't deal with it anymore because he didn't deal with it properly in the first place. But, the thing is, Edgeworth can't deal with it properly to begin with. If he acknowledges the problem and talks about it, it doesn't help like everyone says it will. It just gets him worked up, and he feels worse for being overly emotional about nothing, and then he cuts himself to get rid of the horrible pent up feeling. However, this doesn't really help, instead it always escalates and leads to him punishing himself daily for being so pathetic. He sniffles and presses the knife down just hard enough to poke him, but not pierce the skin. Not enough for the sweet relief that he craves.
He'd stopped cutting on his wrists at a young age, 13 to be exact. Edgeworth had switched to his thighs because it was easier to conceal. This was also the first of his attempts to justify his self-deprecating actions to himself. Others included drinking and burning himself, the former of which he found only fueled his episodes of self-harm, the only difference being when he was drunk, the lines were sloppier and there were always more of them since the alcohol numbed him to the feeling. As for the latter, he despised the loss of control over the injury, never knowing how hot his utensil was. He felt pathetic for trying to justify reducing himself to something seen as what angsty teenage girls do for attention, but at the same time, pathetic for hesitating and pulling away from the heat. At least with cutting he wasn't afraid to go deeper. All this in his mind, he tries not to think and pull through, curled up on the ground and shaking, Phoenix's name on his lips and his promise fresh in his mind. Miles still can't shake what Phoenix had said that first day he came to him for help; "If something were to happen…" Miles continues to cry and shiver.
The worst is over now. The urge has passed, but he still feels miserable. Miles trembles, hugging his legs against his chest. He's still disappointed in himself but acknowledges how counter-productive it would be to kill himself; it would only mean he failed ultimately and didn't ever get his shit together. Regardless, he still wants to cut. Not because he's anxious, but because he feels so empty and drained. He can't cry anymore, despite how wet his tears still are on his cheeks. He can remember what made him so upset, but he is so incredibly neutral to the thought that he wants to feel something, anything, so long as it's enough to forget whatever this horrible emotion is.
It's indescribable, he feels so numb but also so hurt and heavy. It's a confused mixture and it's the only thing he hates more than the hysterical panic that precedes it. As much as he wants to hurt himself, he knows he doesn't really want to. He questions whether he secretly wants to be this way with how much he wants to hurt himself. With how foreign it feels to be happy and how oddly comforting the feeling of utter misery and depression is, he often believes that he wants to be like this forever. But, with the amount of evidence that he really does try to keep it together and make progress, he knows it's not true. With this truth in mind, he goes to dial Phoenix, but hesitates. He doesn't want to guilt him, make him feel bad for the first night he hasn't been there for him in a month. Plus, he told him he would be okay without him. So instead, he calls Gumshoe.
"Hello, sir?" Gumshoe sounds half awake and confused, but still somehow perky as ever.
Edgeworth smiles grimly at this, a coarse laugh escaping him. "Hello, Detective. I am sorry if I woke you."
"Nah, don't worry about it, sir! What do you need?"
Edgeworth sighs, the familiar upbeat tone calming him slightly. "Phoenix is sick." He begins, but he can't get himself to ask Gumshoe to come over.
"Oh no! Is Mr. Wright alright?"
Edgeworth can't help but laugh, even though it comes out dry. "He is fine. Not well, but he'll be fine with some rest and time off."
Gumshoe sighs in relief. "Ah, that's good. So, if Phoenix is ok, then what's wrong, Mr. Edgeworth?"
Miles grimaces, grinding his elbows into his thighs. "It's me," he says softly, almost hoping Gumshoe won't hear him. He's suddenly overcome with shame and guilt, even though he hasn't done anything. "I'm not very good at this, but…" he trails off, trying to steady his breathing. "I'm not in a good place right now."
"Where are you, sir?" Gumshoe asks fervently, "I'll pick you up right now!"
"No," Edgeworth squirms, unable to help the anxiety that's creeping back into his arms, making him twitch. "I mean, I'm not in a good place mentally." He cringes immediately at how he's worded it; too pathetic, too evasive, what are you, a child?
If he were Phoenix, he would ask, "Do you need me to come over?" Miles prepares for it, but when he's met with, "I'll be there as soon as I can," and the click of the detective hanging up, he's relieved. Gumshoe's spared him from elaborating, and for that, he's grateful. He slouches into the cushions of his couch, waiting for the door to chime and praying he can hold out for fifteen more minutes.
Gumshoe knocks twice. He doesn't have to wait long before he's met with a fidgety Edgeworth. He's in casual clothes, dark under-eye circles exposed, hair loose by the sides of his face but not messy, never messy. Gumshoe looks like he always does, ratty coat, and Miles isn't surprised in the least.
"Sir?" Gumshoe asks, voice soft but not patronizing or pitying. Miles dips his head and motions for him to enter. He plops back onto the couch, already feeling degraded enough at Dick seeing him in this state. Gumshoe keeps his coat on, but not his shoes, and kneels on the floor in front of the prosecutor. "Miles." He says, voice steady. He's calm in his demeanor, and Edgeworth finds it oddly settling; Phoenix would be visibly upset, worried, even fussy over him. Gumshoe just seems caring, nothing more and nothing less.
"I'm sorry I bothered you," he murmurs, "it was stupid to call you. Nothing's wrong, I just can't shake these feelings."
Gumshoe sits next to him, but not too close. He isn't acting any different than normally, the only change being the volume of his voice, and it's comforting. Nice, even. "Feelings?" he asks.
Miles nods, then shakes his head vigorously. "It's nothing," he huffs, regretting bringing it up. His skin itches.
"It's not nothing, but if you don't want to talk about it, that's ok." Gumshoe says. When Miles doesn't answer, he says, "We should do something." He grabs the remote from the coffee table, turning on the television: a large flat screen, free of dust but hardly used. Animated mecha figures pop up in full color.
Miles instantly recognizes it as Steel Samurai. He feels himself flush, instinctually embarrassed. He doesn't care what anyone thinks, Gumshoe least of all, his loyal assistant holding him in the highest regard. However, Miles loves Steel Samurai. He also hates it; hates that he likes a "kid's show," that the cartoon channel is the only thing he watches other than the news, that he's still just a child, unable to function, living in the past.
If Gumshoe can tell what he's thinking, he doesn't show it. He does scoot closer to Miles though, looking at the screen and not the prosecutor who can't control his breathing beside him. "I love cartoons," he says, smiling to himself. "I never watched them much as a kid, since I didn't always have cable. But when I did, I would watch cartoons all day. I would get yelled at for waking up so early every Saturday because the TV would wake up everyone else. I could never tell what was too loud." Dick chuckles.
Miles is staring at him, listening. His heart is still pounding in his ears, but hearing Gumshoe talk about nothing and the familiar season one finale audio in the background, Miles doesn't notice his breathing start to regulate or his fists unclench. His shoulder droop and he sinks further into the couch, body relaxing, and his skin stops burning under his clothes. After a while, the two of them are calmly watching Steel Samurai season two reruns, both occasionally commenting on the plot or the costumes or the effects. Once, a fleeting thought crosses Miles' mind, and he feels ashamed and wants to blurt that he had come close to trying to kill himself less than an hour ago, but he realizes with a quick glance across the room that it's 3 am, and it's been almost two hours, and a good two hours at that. He looks across to Gumshoe, who is intensely watching the show, and smiles to himself, the disgust disappearing.
As if he can sense he's being watched, Gumshoe turns and smiles back, face bright and innocent as it always is, and Miles is glad he called. "I'm glad you're here," he whispers, and Dick just smiles wider, goofy grin seemingly contagious as Miles can feel his own cheeks rise in response.
"Are you cold, sir?" Gumshoe asks, and Miles notices that he's shivering a bit, but not from anxiety, because his nerves are still and his mind is clear. Before he can answer, Gumshoe has draped his coat across Miles' lap, and Miles suddenly sees why he always wears it. It's worn and tattered, but the material is soft. He pulls the fabric up to his chin, completely covered by it's length as Gumshoe tucks it around his back and legs. "There," he says, satisfied, and leans into the taller man's lean shoulder.
Edgeworth is surprised that he doesn't mind the contact; Dick isn't a huge weight on his small frame, and he doesn't feel smothered. "Thank you," he whispers, stifling a yawn and melting into the detective's side as well.
"Anything for you, Miles Edgeworth, sir," he whispers, voice husky and deep but still soft and quiet, so quiet that Miles doesn't wake up, snoring peacefully against Gumshoe's arm.