Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Scar Tissue ❯ Scream ( Chapter 21 )

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Part 21

I ran up to my room, and slammed the door behind me. My heart was hammering alarmingly in my chest. Oh God, oh God, had I really just said that? In front of everyone? I shut my eyes tightly, grimacing. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't. I waited to hear the sounds of pursuit, positive that one or more of them would come after me, demanding to `talk'. Seconds stretched into minutes and no one came. Perhaps they were wisely allowing me some time to `calm down'.

I stumbled forward into the room on shaky legs. I needed something. My eyes settled on the audio player on the desk. I went over to it and turned on some music, loud and angry music. Music that screamed, because I couldn't scream.

God, God, God, what had just happened? Thoughts swirled crazily in my head, lost in the pounding, driving music. I was in pain. But it wasn't physical pain. No, nothing so tangible as that. It was a horrible, soul-deep pain. My eyes went to the dresser. I wasn't even aware of making a decision. I just found myself standing there, pawing through the contents of a drawer until I found what I was looking for. I held up the blisterpack with a trembling hand. I needed to feel the bite of a razor blade in my skin. I fumbled with the package, trying to rip the plastic from the cardboard, and suddenly it burst open all over the floor.

I sat down hard, surrounded by small, white, rectangles of paper. I was shaking. I hated myself. Why was I so weak? How could this have happened? Why did this hurt so much? I could barely breathe. I was choking, choking on my own misery. I picked up one of the paper-enfolded razor blades. Why couldn't I just sink the blade into a vein and end everything? I grimaced, dropping the blade and burying my face in my hands.

I felt it so profoundly. The desire to die, to be away from this misery, this pain. I clenched my eyes shut, rocking in time to the hard beat of the music. I was consumed. I was dying, expiring, choking on something intangible and in-concrete. I was choking on pain.

There was a sudden knock on the door. I cursed. It had seemed too good to be true that no one would pursue me after that outburst. That painful, entirely honest outburst. Shuddering, I cried out at the intruder.

"Go away!" Sharp, maybe a little panicked. I hated myself.

"Duo?" It was Quatre. Fuck.

"Go AWAY!" I reiterated, starting to gather up the little white rectangles in a panic, afraid he might barge into the room. I couldn't remember whether or not I'd locked the door.

"Duo, I'm not here to… to bother you. I think we all need some time to breathe. But… if you do need anything, please don't hesitate to ask," Quatre said, his voice soft even as he spoke loudly enough to be heard through the door. There was a drawn out moment of silence and I could picture Quatre hovering anxiously outside the door. "Sally said she would cancel your appointment for today," he finally continued. "Dinner is at six. We all hope to see you there." Another pause. "We do care about you, Duo." That so softly I barely heard it. And then I could hear him moving away down the hall.

I let the blades fall back to the floor. My fists clenched. I was filled with such overwhelming shame. I was… I was a nuisance. Christ, why hadn't they thrown me out of the house and gone on with their lives? What was I to them, really? They were probably only doing this out of some sense of obligation. I brought my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my head. I clenched my eyes shut, wanting to shut the whole world out. I realized I was rocking back and forth. I wanted to scream, scream, scream…. My fingers were digging into my scalp. It hurt to breathe. It hurt so fucking much, just to draw breath.

I'm not sure how long I sat curled up on the floor like that. Long enough for the CD to finish and begin replaying. The world was fuzzy around the edges. I just needed to focus, to clear my head so I could think. I lifted my head and looked at the razor blades scattered on the floor around me with dull eyes. I reached out and picked one up with numb fingers. I climbed unsteadily to my feet. In a fog, I made my way into the bathroom. Made sure to lock the door, and the door adjoining to Heero's room, though I doubted he was in there. They were probably all downstairs, `discussing' me. My lips tightened.

Finally I turned to look at myself in the mirror. Remembered the last time I had stood in that spot, staring at that reflection. The stranger, swallowing pill after pill. The stranger carving words into his chest. I clenched my eyes shut and turned away, feeling sick.

I looked at the blade in my hand. Ever so carefully, I un-wrapped the paper, bringing the blade up for closer inspection. It was deliciously sharp, the bathroom light glinting off the edge hypnotically. I swallowed. Something in the back of my mind was wailing, berating me for even contemplating this. What if the others found out? They'd lock me up for sure. So I just had to make sure they didn't find out….

I wanted to cut my arms. For some reason I couldn't even begin to fathom, there was no place so completely satisfying to cut as the lower arms. Perhaps it had something to do with the accessibility of the area. How easy it was to just take the blade in one hand, turn the other arm over, and sink the metal into soft flesh. Especially satisfying near the wrists, or even, if you're feeling daring, on the delicate, fragile skin of the wrist itself. There's some kind of twisted, sick magic to thinking to yourself, `I mutilated my wrists'. You also don't have to go very deep to get a lot of blood. You can slit your wrists without it being a suicide attempt. I should know. I've done it many times. Luckily, I had a wide wristwatch, and another wide wrist-band I'd worn on the other arm to hide bandages when necessary.

But I couldn't cut my wrists now, or my arms. The wrists and lower arms were also the hardest to hide. No, the best place now would be someplace easy to hide, like my thighs.

My heart heavy in my chest, I lowered my pants down around my knees and sat on the closed lid of the toilet. I pulled up the leg of my boxers, exposing an expanse of pale thigh. Already I could feel the… the relief flowing through my body. This was right. This would make it right. But at the same time, some part of me was cringing.

I picked a spot. High up and to the side. Fairly un-lined from previous cutting, at least from recent cutting. There were still scabs over much of my thighs from my two-week binge. Almost in a trance, I placed the blade against my skin. This was it. My last chance to change my mind. I grit my teeth and clenched my eyes. Then I sunk the blade into my flesh.

It hurt. Good. I began to draw the blade through my skin with steady pressure, cutting fairly deep. I kept my eyes closed, concentrating only on the pain, on the feeling of skin being cruelly parted. Clarity was washing through me, clearing the fog from my mind. I lifted the blade and looked at the cut. About two inches, ruby-red blood already beading up. I smeared it with my fingers, lifted my hand to taste the salty tang on my tongue. Pressed the blade down again, drew another line, parallel to the first. I exhaled a long breath, the release of tension palpable. This was real, this was concrete, this was pain I could deal with, that I could understand. Not the horrible, all-consuming, indescribable agony that usually gripped me. I added a third line, even deeper than the others, and I had to suppress a sob, though I didn't think it was from the physical pain. I think some last remaining rational part of my mind was horrified at what I was doing.

I sat back and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, taking deep breaths. My thigh felt inflamed. I concentrated on the stinging, radiating pain. Finally, I looked back down.

Realization hit me like a shockwave.

Oh shit, what had I done? What had I fucking done? My hands were shaking. The blade slipped from my fingers. I rubbed my face frantically. How could I be so stupid? How could I cut now? Fuck, I'd been released from the hospital following a suicide attempt mere hours ago, and here I was, cutting up my leg! God, the relief I'd felt had been so fleeting. Despair was welling up in me stronger than ever.

I was on my feet. My eyes darted restlessly around the room. God, God, God, God! My breath was coming in short gasps. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My hands clenched into fists at my side. My face was drawn, pale, pinched. My eyes were wide, crazy-looking. There was a streak of blood down the left side of my face. It must have come from my hand when I rubbed my face. I looked like a fucking psycho.

I wanted to do violence. I wanted to smash the mirror. I wanted to rip down the shower curtain, to break everything in sight, to rip apart this prim and proper and elegant bathroom. But I couldn't do that. That would attract attention. That would garner me more of those looks, and worse. So I did the only thing I could do. I turned the violence on myself.

I sat down hard, yanked up my left sleeve, and started to pound on the back of my arm with my fist. I hit it again and again and again, as my teeth clenched and my eyes began to water. When I didn't think I could stand the pain any longer I turned my arm over and started anew. Finally, my strength gave out. I leaned back against the wall, my breath coming in long, deep gasps, and just felt. Felt the aching, burning pain in my arm. The sharp, stinging pain in my thigh. The pounding in my temples, the ache in my heart. It was all I could do not to start sobbing.

Despite my best efforts, there were a few tears leaking from my eyes. I was consumed by complete and utter hopelessness. The despair I felt was indescribable. I looked down. My boxer leg had slipped back down, and red now stained the white fabric. The skin on my arm was an angry shade of red, and already looked to be swelling. I had broken open a few of the scabs on my cuts. Again. They were going to scar badly. As if it mattered. I was covered in scars. My breath caught in my chest, and again I wanted to scream. I was covered in scars. There were times when the full significance of that fact really hit home.

For the rest of my life, however long or short that may be, I would forever be a person with self-inflicted scars on their body. Anyone I would ever come into contact with would look at me in an entirely different way if they knew, would treat me differently, would act differently around me. They would think certain things about me, make certain assumptions. At worst, they would call me a freak to my face. At best, they would be like my friends, and look at me that way. I shuddered, drawing my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, finding comfort in the resulting pain in my arm and thigh. The scars on my skin changed everything. I was a freak. How could I ever live like this? Why would anyone ever want to put up with me, to deal with me, to cope with all my craziness? I lost the battle and buried my face in my knees as I sobbed.

I hated myself. I hated myself so much. I couldn't believe how fucked up I was. What kind of a person does these things? People would be right to consider me a freak. I fought to stop crying. I knew that if I let myself, I could sob for hours. The tremors finally subsided. Dimly, I wondered about the time. A glance at my watch told me that it was nearing six. I was amazed. Had so much time really passed since the disastrous `discussion'? I suddenly remembered Quatre saying that dinner was at six. Would someone come up here, trying to get me to join them? I was quite sure that I didn't want to see any of them right now.

I had to get out of here. These walls were suffocating me. I just needed to get away for a while. I could just slip out, without any of them knowing. Right then it seemed like a wonderful idea. Purpose in mind, I climbed to my feet, wincing at the pain in my leg and arm. Two very different kinds of pain, the one sharp, the other dull and aching.

I cleaned the dried blood off my thigh with some toilet paper, and then flushed it. I pulled up my pants and returned to my room. A quick glance out the window confirmed the presence of a trellis, easily traversed as an escape route. But where would I go? I pondered the question briefly, the obvious answer quickly coming to mind. It was just what I needed.

I quickly changed into some of the new clothes I'd gotten that day, tight-fitting black pants and a loose, button-up black shirt in a satiny fabric. I returned to the bathroom and managed to wash my face and neatly re-braid my hair without really looking in the mirror. I grabbed my cash card from my wallet and stuffed it into a pocket. My thigh burned, my arm ached. Taking one last look around the room, my resolve firm, I opened the window and climbed out onto the trellis. I gingerly climbed my way down. In mere moments I had slipped away from the estate and was making my way towards the downtown core.

I had completely forgotten about the razor blade lying abandoned on the bathroom floor.

TBC