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Red drips slowly down her slender wrist. It’s mesmerising, sparkling slightly in the dim light of the lamp, staining her skin the rich colour of wine. It runs into her hand, traces the lines of her palm before it reaches her fingers and –
Ena grabs a tissue from the box on the floor. Catches the drop before it falls. It blooms across the tissue like an unsightly flower. She’s breathing heavily, pupils blown wide. She registers all of a sudden the reality of what she’s done.
She puts the razor down and cradles her head in her hands.
She’s done it again.
Tears mix with the blood. Red smears across her face as she tries to wipe her eyes. There’s so much of it this time, and she doesn’t even know how. She doesn’t even know why. She grabs more tissues, rubs aggressively at her wrists like she can erase the lines that now mar her skin. Ugly tears in her body that will heal to uglier scars. Pain is felt in hindsight. It doesn’t hurt physically, not really. It’s the regret that makes Ena’s skin crawl and throb.
Stupid.
Why does she keep doing things she knows she’ll regret?
There’s a knock on the door – three sharp raps and then Akito’s voice calling ‘Ena, Dinner’s ready.’
It’s a reflexive response, really. Ena yells at him. Like every time he tries to help, she just hurts him.
‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’
Akito has long since given up on trying to talk to her when she’s like this. Unreasonable, explosive, and all those things she always is. There’s a small pause before he leaves quietly, his footsteps disappearing down the stairs.
Her own voice echoes in her head. It grates on her. Her words, the volume, the pitch – they’re all so annoying. She wishes she could just shut up forever, because nothing good ever comes from her talking.
Ena looks down at her hands. The blood is drying to a rusty brown on her wrists.
A shaky inhale. It rattles in her lungs.
She stands unsteadily and makes her way to the bathroom to wash the blood off her arms. In the bathroom, she sees herself in the mirror. Her mascara-streaked face, her red eyes, her eyebags, her chapped lips, the blood smeared on her cheeks and her chin and her forehead. Her skin is dry. She wants to punch herself. Instead, she decides to take a shower to calm down.
It does help, but the water stings in her fresh wounds, and watching the blood go down the drain makes her feel disgusting. With clean wounds, she can peer at the bare flesh beneath her skin. It disturbs her viscerally.
When Ena steps out of the shower, she goes to throw away the tissues on her floor. There’s a splotch of blood on the carpet. She goes back to her bed and picks up her phone. It’s a bad habit, but she can’t help going to her art account on Instagram, searching desperately for someone who thinks she can do something.
There’s nothing meaningful there. As many throwaway comments about how bad her art is as there are complimenting it. It hurts more than the drag of a razor across her skin. She switches to her other account. There’s an influx of comments from the last time she posted, complimenting her face, her makeup, her figure and her clothes. It satisfies some itch in her brain, but it makes her feel nauseous. There’s nothing meaningful here either. There’s really nothing meaningful about a life like hers at all.
Ena puts down her phone and buries her face in her pillow. She knows she should go downstairs and eat dinner with the rest of her family, but there’s a churning in her stomach that won’t let her feel hungry. It’s been there for days. She only gets food when she’s on the verge of collapsing, nowadays.
She screams into her pillow. It’s so frustrating. Why can’t she do anything right? She can’t draw, she can’t treat people with decency, she can’t look after herself – what is there that she can do? Oh yeah, yell at Akito, yell at her parents, cry. She finds herself reaching for the discarded razor again. It’s not a conscious decision to lift it to the untouched portion of her wrist. It’s purely involuntary, Ena swears. She knows what she’s doing, she’s moving her hand and making a cut, but it’s not what she wants to do. She doesn’t intend to do it, but it just happens. And she doesn’t know why.
It's small this time, and she stops herself before she can go further.
Later that night, she joins the nightcord call to Mizuki trying to convince Mafuyu that snakes are basically fish. She’s not sure where that sort of conversation topic even comes from, but it’s refreshing to hear Mizuki happy. At least that’s one thing she’s done right – bringing Mizuki back to niigo.
They work on a song until 5am. Ena is slower than usual with her drawings, because her hand is tremoring, and she can’t think of any ideas. She feels so incompetent when Kanade finishes the next composition, Mafuyu finishes the lyrics, and Mizuki is waiting for Ena’s art to make the MV so she has to settle for a boring night of playing around with fonts.
-
She has to wash the dishes. It’s stupid, really. Her brother is out, and her parents are busy, and the one chore she’s been given in ages is to wash the dishes. Mizuki is at her house to hang out, and instead of all the nice things they could be doing together, Ena has to wash the dishes. Reflexively, she rolls up her sleeves as she runs the tap. Mizuki is hovering behind her. The moment it takes Ena to realise what she’s doing and roll her sleeve back down is enough for Mizuki to catch her wrist in her hand. Ena winces at the contact against her healing wounds.
‘Ena.’
Mizuki’s voice is quiet, void of its usual charming brightness. But it’s firm.
‘Yeah, Mizuki?’
In contrast, Ena’s voice shakes.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Ena shakes her head. She refuses to meet Mizuki’s eyes – she’s sure she’ll see pity in them, pity she doesn’t deserve.
‘Ok,’ Mizuki says. She lets go of Ena’s hand and gently nudges her shoulder, signalling for her to move aside a bit, then she reaches over her shoulder for the sponge and a plate. Ena stands awkwardly for a second, unsure of what to do with her hands. Sometimes it still surprises her how Mizuki never pushes or prods. She treats Ena with a gentleness that hurts, not in the way Kanade treats her – like she’s fragile and will break at the slightest touch – but in a way only Mizuki has ever treated her. With respect for her boundaries, genuine care, genuine kindness, and trust.
‘Go sit down. I’ll do the dishes.’
‘Mizuki, you don’t have to,‘ Ena protests.
‘I want to.’
Ena falls silent. She doesn’t want to talk, not really. She feels like everything comes out of her mouth wrong lately, and she can’t stop herself from talking sometimes, so she just avoids starting in the first place. Mizuki fills the silence with singing, and Ena is glad for it. She likes hearing Mizuki – her voice is calming, mellow and warm. It makes her chest feel hollow, but somehow also fills the empty space until her heart is bursting.
Sitting in the kitchen, listening to Mizuki sing in her dulcet voice accompanied only by the sound of the running tap and the occasional clinking of plates, Ena might be the most relaxed she’s been in weeks.
‘I’m done,’ Mizuki announces.
She rinses the dish soap off her hands and sets the stack of washed plates to dry on the counter, then dries off her hands on a tea towel and turns to Ena. Ena still won’t meet her eyes. She doesn’t look up from the floor even when Mizuki is standing over her.
‘Enanan,’ Mizuki says softly. ‘Do you want a hug?’
Ena hesitates, then slowly nods. Immediately, there are arms encircling her shoulders. Warmth presses against her front, and it’s awkward because Ena is sitting and Mizuki is standing, but Ena finds her face in Mizuki’s shoulder, and Mizuki is nuzzling her hair, and her heart aches with comfort. But then it hurts too much. Her lungs burn and her neck itches and there’s a prickling in her eyes, but she doesn’t want to move away from the suffocating warmth of Mizuki’s embrace.
Ena gasps in a breath, and it feels like her ribcage is caving in. She can’t breathe. There’s air going into her lungs but there’s never enough of it. Clumsily, she reaches up to push at Mizuki’s shoulders – she can’t stand it anymore. Mizuki withdraws and takes one of Ena’s hands.
‘Enanan, breathe.’
‘I-I’m trying,’ Ena wheezes through tears.
There’s a hand on her face, a thumb swiping over her cheek to wipe away her tears. She leans into the hand, chasing the warmth despite how it contracts her chest.
‘That’s right, just focus on breathing.’
Ena squeezes her eyes shut and nods. She slowly manages to calm her breathing, as Mizuki whispers soothing words and rubs gentle circles into her hand. She realises how embarrassing it is to break down like this, and for a moment her breath hitches again, but then Mizuki is saying ‘Ena, hey. It’s alright,’ and Ena almost believes her.
‘Sorry,’ Ena says after she doesn’t feel like her chest is imploding anymore.
‘It’s okay.’
It’s not okay at all. Ena wants to shrink and disappear. She’s so pathetic, she can’t even take a hug without breaking down. Mizuki shouldn’t have to comfort her through these stupid episodes or have to deal with Ena’s incompetence. She shouldn’t have to wash the dishes because Ena did something idiotic. She shouldn’t have to withhold her hugs because Ena is too sensitive.
Ena nods.
‘Do you want to go to your room?’ Mizuki asks.
Ena makes a strangled noise before nodding again.
‘Do you think you can stand?’
Ena bites back a bitter response, choosing instead to push herself off the chair. She stumbles a little, and Mizuki catches her by the shoulders, steadying her. Ena’s legs are slightly wobbly, so Mizuki loops an arm around her and helps her as they go up the stairs to Ena’s room.
Ena had forgotten the state of her room. As soon as Mizuki turns the doorknob, it strikes her that this is a mistake. Her hand flies to hold the door shut, and she sees Mizuki shoot her a strange look out of her peripheral vision.
‘Wait, I-‘ Ena doesn’t know what to say. Any iteration of ‘you can’t go in’ will have to be explained.
Mizuki drops her hand away from the doorknob.
‘We don’t have to hang out in your room. We can go to the living room.’
Ena is grateful, she really is, but something must be wrong with her, because it irks her how Mizuki always does what Ena wants without questioning it. Mizuki wants to be close to her and hug her. Mizuki wants to cuddle up next to her on her bed and talk about dumb things. Mizuki wants Ena to open up to her, because Mizuki has bared her soul to Ena, and Ena has yet to do the same. Mizuki wants a lot of things, but Ena always denies her. Ena hates it.
The worst part is, some sick part of her wants Mizuki to see the state of her room. Some twisted voice in her brain tells her to open the door and let Mizuki see the bloodstains on the carpet, the razors on the bedside table, the broken mirror. It wants desperately for someone to think there’s something wrong with her, for someone to help her in ways she doesn’t need or deserve, for Mizuki to see and understand a false suffering without Ena needing to explain. But Mizuki won’t understand. Even Ena herself doesn’t understand. The reality doesn’t stop her from pushing the door open.
The first glimpse through the doorway has Mizuki frozen in place. Ena regrets everything immediately. She shouldn’t have opened the door. She shouldn’t have invited Mizuki over. She shouldn’t have put a blade to her skin.
‘Ena,’ Mizuki says.
She’s staring at Ena with wide eyes, her mouth moving soundlessly. Ena grits her teeth and keeps her gaze on the ground as she shuts the door again. A resistance against her tug is what finally makes her look up. There’s a hand against the door, pushing it so that it stays open.
‘Ena, look at me.’
Ena stays stubbornly silent. Her eyes narrow to a glare at the floor. She’s an idiot.
‘Please,’ Mizuki adds.
Her gaze feels like it drags across the carpet. It snags on the opening of the door for an instant, morbidly transfixed by the mess that is her own room, but Mizuki’s fingers on her chin steer her eyes away, forcing Ena to make eye contact with her.
‘Ena, can you show me your arms?’
Ena shakes her head so hard that her head spins. She watches the bob of Mizuki’s Adam’s apple as she swallows, the shutter of her eyelashes as she blinks tears out of her eyes. Mizuki lets go of Ena and goes into the room, leaving Ena standing, shaking uncontrollably in the doorway. Ena can hear shuffling around from inside the room. It takes a moment to collect herself, but she forces herself to enter.
The razors clink as they fall into the bin. Mizuki is crouched on the floor, collecting the broken glass strewn around with her bare hands.
‘Mizuki, stop! That’s dangerous!’
Mizuki stands abruptly and wheels around to face her. There are tears streaming down her face, and her lips are trembling.
‘AND IT’S NOT DANGEROUS WHEN YOU DELIBERATELY CUT YOUR OWN SKIN WITH IT? HAVE YOU SEEN THE AMOUNT OF BLOOD ON THIS CARPET? YOU COULD HAVE DIED!‘ Mizuki chokes on a sob. ‘Sorry, I just… Ena, I can’t- I-‘
Ena feels numb. Mizuki’s voice, so often used to placate her, usually calm and gentle and bright, shatters something in her. Mizuki hasn’t yelled like this since last year’s school festival. ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ is what Ena is sure Mizuki wants to say.
She’s reached a breaking point, probably because of all the shit Ena has been putting her through. Ena can’t blame her, really, if she wants to leave her. If Mizuki leaves Ena, Mizuki can be happy. Maybe it’s better that way.
‘Sorry, I’ll, uh,’ Ena says. ‘I’ll clean it all up. You can… you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.’
‘No, I- I’m not leaving you alone! Just – here, sit on the bed and wait.’
Mizuki grabs Ena’s shoulders and steers her to the bed, then starts scrubbing at the floor with a soapy rag.
‘Mizuki, stop. It won’t come out. Just. Leave it.’
Mizuki sighs deeply. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. This is my fault, just…’
Ena wants Mizuki to come to the bed and hold her close, stroking through her hair with her slender fingers and humming a song like she used to. She wants Mizuki to cradle her in her strong arms and pepper kisses against her face while Ena makes half-hearted protests. But she can’t be held by Mizuki without breaking down into tears, and she can’t ask Mizuki to comfort Ena when Mizuki is probably more upset than her. Ena is so stupid. She’s always known that when she cuts herself it hurts the people who care about her more than it hurts herself, but she does it anyway, and now here she is.
Mizuki slides onto the bed next to her. She’s both too close and not close enough.
‘Ena, I love you, okay. Please don’t hurt yourself. If there’s something bothering you, just call me. I’m always just one call away. Please. If someone says something that makes you sad, or if you just feel bad, you can always talk to me about it. Anything. I can come over to your house at a moment’s notice if you need me to. Just tell me how to help, please.’
Mizuki is rambling. The tears on her face drip onto the duvet, turning the white fabric grey. Her hand inches towards Ena’s but hesitates to take it. Ena watches the twitch of her fingers as they brush the air a centimetre away from her own hand.
-
The knife draws a line across her skin. It’s white, not red, the weight of the blade too light to split the skin without additional pressure. Ena draws in a deep breath and presses harder on the next pass over her skin. The red beads in the middle of the cut. Another red line. A drop of blood falls into the kitchen sink. Another swipe.
Ena throws the knife in the sink with a clang. Trembling fingers reach for her phone. She finds the contact she’s looking for and the phone rings only once before it’s picked up.
‘Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to –‘ Ena takes a rasping breath. ‘Mizuki, can you come over?’
‘Yeah.’ The reply comes, slightly out of breath. Ena hears the slam of a door. ‘I’m on my way.’