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Mike York fell bonelessly onto the bed and let out a loud sigh. He barely noticed his roommate saying something about going to someone else's room, but caught enough to decline an invitation to come along- he just wanted to be alone at the moment. Anson looked at him strangely, a look which he pointedly ignored, but went, leaving him alone again. It was a trend he had gotten used to a long time ago.
He'd always been alone in some sense, and even when he hadn't been, it felt like he was. His family, or those who knew about his cutting, they all thought he was like a china doll, one to associate with as little as possible. The rest of them were so blithe it hurt almost as much, since he knew they would act completely different if they knew. His teammates were always insensitive about everything else- he knew it would be the same. The razorblade had become such an extension of himself that he felt nobody could understand him without understanding it.
It had given him wings, but it had also chained him to the ground.
He turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut. Not thinking had been working so well, why couldnt his brain just turn off? It didnt help that there was this nagging voice in the back of his head that kept telling him perhaps Comrie would be the one who would finally understand.
But why would he? It wasnt like he had done anything but ask- more like demand- a few questions. Still, it was more than most people had bothered with. Usually he was just dismissed as quirky or even plain weird- no one had ever bothered to wonder why.
Granted, the situation had been forced on him, but that didnt mean he had to do anything about it. Of course, it could only be more attempts to find something that wasnt there. After all, why would Comrie be interested in a fucked-up case like him?
He shook his head, trying to clear it, and reached down to scratch absently at his wrist, stopping short as a familiar shiver ran up his arm and down his spine.
No, he reminded himself, no, it wouldnt help. It did sometimes, for a little while, but eventually he ended up worse than before.
But what else was there to help?
No.
Maybe
No!
He opened an eye carefully, immediately catching sight of his suitcase, zipper slightly open. It would be so easy
No.
Everything would be all right again.
Well maybe...
He sat up, swinging his feet off the bed. Just a few steps, and it was in his hand, cold metal flashing in the dim hotel lamplight. There was almost a sense of urgency now that hed made up his mind, accelerating his heartbeat and quickening his breathing. So close now, so damned close...
York made his way into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Anson probably wouldnt be back for a few hours at least, but someone could come to check up on him and he didnt exactly want this to become common knowledge.
Pulling up the sleeve of his shirt, he gripped the razor even tighter, ignoring the sudden twinge of fear, and dragged the blade slowly, methodically over his skin. Just a shallow cut at first, barely enough to leave a mark, but gradually becoming deeper and deeper, until the blood began to rise, the deep red staining his pale skin.
Strangely enough, instead of calming him like it usually did, the sight of blood magnified the twinge of fear until it became almost full-blown panic. He swallowed against the rising bile in his throat, the roaring in his ears drowning out rational thought. The razor slipped from suddenly loose fingers, the loud clatter as it hit the floor bringing him somewhat back to his senses.
He grasped the cut, trying to stop it from bleeding. Where was the heady rush, the sense of relief? Where was his control? It had always worked before
He glanced down to see blood trickling through the cracks between his fingers. That was new too; he'd never tried to stop the blood from flowing. He pulled his hand away and stared, almost entranced, at his now red fingers. The cut hadnt been too deep, even now the blood had almost dried.
So then, what the hell was it? Just a fluke?
York reached down to grab the razor from the floor, eyes narrowing. He needed relief. He craved relief. He couldnt take the pain anymore.
He'd just have to try again.
He pressed slightly deeper than usual, barely noticing the pain as his arm slit easily, the blood coming quicker this time.
A sudden sense of calm swept over him, numbing his senses. With every drop of blood that was shed, a piece of his mind was laid to rest.
So he did it again, wanting- needing- that feeling of peace. And again, until hed finally had enough.
Until he could forget and just sleep.
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