Chapter Text
Mike’s hands shook fiercely as he pulled the handle of his kitchen’s junk drawer open. He rifled through dead batteries, takeout menus from restaurants that had closed years ago and tangles of rubber bands, loose string and old lanyards and ID cards frantically. The man desperately was trying to locate the missing object, only growing more frustrated as the maze of junk seemed to multiply before his eyes everytime he moved an object.
His hands were shaking with a frightening intensity as he manically searched through the drawer. He wanted to scream with frustration or perhaps bash his head against a brick wall, because nothing was ever where it was supposed to be- where he needed it to be.
Mike pulled his shaking hands out of the drawer, twisting them in sweaty blonde hair, yanking at his scalp until tears pricked the corner of his eyes as a loud, guttural sound tore from his lips in complete and utter frustration.
God fucking damnit.
Leave it to Mike Ross to not even be able to cut himself right.
Once a fuck up, always a fuck up. And this was no exception.
He had been so on edge all day. Everything had felt so intensely wrong from the moment he had opened his eyes this morning, like there was something horrible about to happen, something he had no control over, no power to stop.
Mike snarled into the empty room, teeth barred like he was a wild animal, as he slammed the drawer shut.
The man laughed as the drawer popped back open, the contents rattling around violently in a cacophony of sound at the sudden, lurching motion.
How fucking hard was it to find a screwdriver in a 600 square foot apartment?
His mind was screaming at him as he moved his search efforts onto the desk, leafing through old files (that he really should bring to the office to shred), crumpled up sticky notes, receipts from various coffee shops and bodegas and half filled up notebooks.
His frustration felt palpable, like it was a dense fog inhabiting his mind, seeping out from his mouth and nose and ear and filling his living room.
Mike sighed in relief as his trembling hands finally made contact with the phillips head screwdriver, hidden underneath a half read book that was bent open to keep his place.
He had had this particular screwdriver since he was 14 years old and he was rather unsure where it had come from in the first place. It was a worn thing, shorter than the average screwdriver that came in a toolkit, but not quite travel size (a rather impractical size if you were to ask him). He was often fearful that the thing would fall apart on him all together. The spot where the yellow and black handle connected with the metal was held together by layers of frayed duct tape and it was wobbly in a way you didn’t want a screwdriver to be.
Anytime he used it, he was scared it would simply fall apart and then he would have to replace it, cementing his habit even more so into an addiction, rather than something he casually had partaken in over the past many years, because only addicts would have to go to a hardware store to replace the screwdriver they used to open the pencil sharpener that held the blade he used to cut himself. He had had it for over a decade at this point however, and it had always gotten the job done, never truly breaking, and certainly never failing him when he needed it most.
Mike held the screwdriver like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest for the few short steps to the bathroom. As he walked, he felt like he was partaking in his own personal funeral march.
His mind was screaming at him to hurry up. To cut to the chase. To be quicker about this all. He was suffering and he knew how to help himself feel better, so why was he wasting time slowly walking down the hallway.
He knew how this was going to end. It always ended the same way. What was he waiting for?
Mike slammed the door of the bathroom shut, going to lock it, but stopping himself when he remembered that he now lived alone. Old habits die hard and it only took one person walking in on him with his pants down, razor blade in hand, blood staining his exposed thighs, for Mike to be well and thoroughly traumatized (and cynical)… and it had happened to Mike six times by this point.
He knew the stereotype about cutters, they were all attention seekers… and he had always resented the stereotype, insisting that there was no truth behind it. But perhaps after being caught cutting yourself six times, maybe it was an attention thing after all. Or maybe that was just another way of him hurting himself, by invalidating his own feelings on everything and anything all the time.
He sighed, deciding not to lock the door, in spite of Trevor (who was predictably one of the people who had walked in on him in the past). It wasn’t like he was ever coming back… he had no one to fear walking in on him anymore. And God wasn’t that terribly sad in a poetic way.
He had pushed everyone away to the point where there was nobody around to even care that he was cutting himself, which frankly made him want to cut more. But when someone was around and found out, they would look at him in disgust and then leave. It was a vicious cycle, one that he never won.
In his tenure as a cutter, the word made him snarl once more, it wasn’t like he was always particularly careful. He tried to remember to always lock the door, lock himself away. But when your mind was screaming such horrible things at you, when you felt so low that the only way to stop the horrible racing thoughts was tearing your own skin apart, forcing yourself to bleed, well… what did it matter if you remembered to be careful?
If you don’t picture yourself waking up in the morning, does it matter if you lock the door tonight?
Mike shook his head once and then a second time more forcefully, as if he was trying to physically dislodge the passive suicidal ideation from his thoughts. He felt low right now, but not that low. He wasn’t stupid, or at least not that stupid. Things were finally starting to look up.
He rationally knew that losing his relationship with Trevor was for the best, he just needed to give it time, give himself time. He didn’t actually want to end it all tonight, did he? Certainly not over a selfish asshole like Trevor.
The part of his brain that liked to remind him how very alone and very pathetic he was, reminded him that Trevor would never end his life over losing his relationship with Mike. So why should Mike? It wasn’t worth it. It couldn’t possibly be worth it.
He used the screwdriver to dismantle the pencil sharpener he had collected from the back of his medicine cabinet (the one he hid in a long empty box of band aids, there was a second one in an empty bottle of aspirin and a third was hidden behind a half used bottle of aloe vera gel).
Rationally, he knew it was strange (perhaps even particularly disturbing) for him to keep his blades in his medicine cabinet- especially since they were so inaccessible screwed into the plastic casing of the pencil sharpener- but he had always done it this way.
Further, he had always preferred sharpener blades, ever since he had tried one for the very first time when he was a teenager. They were thicker than an average razor, dealt more damage, made the racing thoughts in his brain slow down for a little longer.
And God did it make him feel sick to his stomach that he was so used to harming himself that he had preferred types of blades, methods of storage and how to best hide them.
It wasn’t like it was normal to keep a pencil sharpener in your medicine cabinet, nonetheless three of them with bloodstains and rusty edges. But he was entirely disillusioned to being normal and he was so far removed from what a person who was not addicted to hurting themselves found normal, that he had somehow convinced himself that if someone were to find the sharpeners they would not automatically jump to the conclusion that Mike was physically harming himself (in the way that they would if he kept around loose razor blades in his medicine cabinet).
There was another smaller part of his mind that tried to convince himself that if he needed to search for the screwdriver and then physically dismantle the sharpener in order to reach the blades within, that he might be able to use that buffer time to calm down, utilize the other coping mechanisms he knew he should be using, convince himself that maybe he shouldn’t actually give into the darkness that was always consuming his mind.
The delayed release of the blade never did stop him, though. In fact, it usually made him even more antsy, desperate energy coiling within him, begging to be released.
Mike perched himself on the edge of the clawfoot tub in the corner of the room, using one hand to unbuckle his belt, before pushing the fabric of his dress pants down to his knees.
A voice that sounded suspiciously like Harvey, was yelling at him from the back of his mind that he shouldn’t crinkle his dress pants, that he should be careful with them because they cost more than he spends on average on groceries in an entire month. But a voice that was decidedly Mike’s own was even louder- I wonder if that fabric would look beautiful stained with blood?
He was laughing then again, pondering blood stains on dress pants, salty tears splashing down his cheeks and hitting the corner of his upturned lips, as he ran the pads of his fingers over the scarred skin of his now exposed thighs. It felt like touching a topographical map of a war zone, deep gashes criss-crossing across milky white skin in various states of healing. Some were so faded he could barely see them, others red and inflamed having been inflicted quite recently.
Mike took one deep breath in, scrunching his eyes shut, causing more tears to escape from the corners of his eyes, splashing down the skin of his face like an out of control waterfall.
He grit his teeth as he pushed the blade down, letting out the breath he had been holding as euphoria flooded his mind. He then yanked his wrist to the side, dragging the blade about an inch over and then upwards.
He opened his eyes then, using his unoccupied hand to wipe at his tears, smiling a lopsided grin at the crimson stained blade in his fingers.
God did it feel good.
He brought the blade to the skin of his thigh once more, basking in the feeling of his brain finally slowing down for the first time that day- finally leaving him the fuck alone.
It felt so good. The way it stung, the feeling of the pain, everything. It felt like the best high in the entire universe, multiplied by a thousand.
Before he knew it, there were at least half a dozen new cuts on his thighs, most of which were far deeper than he usually went. At points you could see the white fleshy part of his skin underneath the surface and it made Mike feel somewhat pleased, somewhat nauseated.
He knew that he was being stupid. He had work tomorrow and files to brief before work and dinner to make and just so many things he could be doing right now that wasn’t this. He should stop. He knew he should stop.
But he felt so helplessly out of control and Mike truly feared that nothing could stop him now… not even if he wanted to.
Blood trailed down his thighs, dripping down skinny legs, splashing against the lip of the bathtub and the tops of his bunched up pants and onto the cracked linoleum floor.
He smiled at the red stained fabric, it really was as beautiful as he thought it would be. But not as beautiful as the drops of blood staining the porcelain white tub. The contrast between the white and crimson red enthralled him, captivating his entire attention as it slid down the bathtub- pooling on the bottom.
Mike bit his lip, staring at the stains, tracing them with his eyes like tiny red tendrils or veins, as a horrifying thought crossed his mind.
An overwhelming dizziness overcame him as he stood up, and he clutched at the bathtub in order to steady himself, smearing the blood as he reached down to plug the drain. Black dots assaulted the corners of his vision as he turned the faucet as hot as it would go.
Thick, steamy air filled the small bathroom within minutes, fogging the mirror and causing a thin sheen of condensation to coat every surface of the room. Mike was so consumed with dizziness as the room grew hotter and hotter, as more blood streamed down his legs, that he feared he may truly pass out right there and then. He grinned as he considered the possibility of hitting his head, of maybe not waking up at all.
The man stumbled, blood from his legs dripping everywhere and leaving little scarlet paths of blood behind him as he pushed his pants off entirely. He was too tired and bleary to wrangle off his dress shirt or underwear, so he simply left them on as he clumsily climbed into the rapidly filling tub.
Mike hissed with pain as the scalding hot water hit his legs, sloshing up and over the sides as his weight displaced it when he sat down. The pain of the water in the open wounds was blinding, but it felt so fucking good and he cried out with the euphoric feeling of it all.
As he sat in the water, it filled him with more and more red hot, searing pain. Mike writhed in the water, causing more of it to slosh over the edge. It felt good, better than good really, but it was also so immensely overwhelming and his entire body and mind felt like it was floating, he felt like he was watching his own body from the ceiling. He felt like he was a stranger looking in on the scene below him.
Or maybe he just felt like was going to puke. He wasn’t certain of how he was feeling in either direction.
Mike leaned back against the cool surface of the tub, desperately wishing for more relief from the brutal heat than he could manage feeling through his soaked shirt.
He was so hot.
So very fuckimg hot.
He felt like he was burning.
He was dizzy and hot and his brain felt like it was falling apart on him.
Everything felt unclear, like he was waking up from a year long nap or looking at the world from behind a windshield during a summer rainstorm.
He felt like he had smoked 4 bowls and had 3 shots all at the same time. Like his body was too heavy, too out of control.
Mike laughed again, holding his arm up and letting it fall back down, delighted as red tinted water splashed everywhere.
He held his wrist up again, this time using his other hand to hold it close to his face- blinking at it slowly, inspecting the skin like he had never seen his own wrist before this very moment in time. Like he was staring at the body of a stranger who had non-consensually inhabited his being.
He had never cut his wrists before, but staring at it made him question that decision fiercely. It was so beautiful and so clear and he had a sudden, overwhelming urge to destroy it.
His vein was a blueish trail hidden beneath his skin, and Mike wanted to see if the blood in his wrist was as red as the blood in his thighs.
His arm felt like a bag of bricks as he tried to hold it up, bringing it even closer to his face, so close that he could feel his own breathe on the wet surface of his skin. The hairs on his arm stood on edge and for a second time seemed to stand still as he stared at his wrist like it belonged to a stranger.
He spun the blade between his fingers, the metal glinting under the overhead lights.
He knew wrists were off limits, too easy to accidentally kill himself. Too easy for someone to see the cuts, to uncover his dirty little secret.
But he wasn’t thinking straight. His mind was so fuzzy and he was so hot and dizzy. He was so depressed. He wanted it all to stop. And maybe this really was for the best.
Mike bit his lip, water splashing over the sides as he adjusted his position, sitting up sloppily, wrist pinned between his knees, blade in his dominant hand, poised above the clear skin.
“Where are you Mike?” There was a voice outside the bathroom door, but Mike ignored it.
“You can’t just leave your door unlocked all the time. You’re going to wind up murdered one day, kid.” The voice was getting louder now.
“Holy shit, is that water??” He filtered the sound out, letting it go in one ear and out the other, as he moved the blade towards his waiting wrist- right above the vein.
“Are you ok?” The voice was so close now, “Where even are you, Mike?”
“Shit Mike… you’re going to flood the entire building…”
The blade was so close to his skin, all he would need to do to end it all was bring it down and screw his eyes shut. And then patiently wait for the end to come like the familiar darkness of sleep, only more permanently.
“Fuck it.”
The door was being pushed open and then the world truly did move in slow motion as Harvey blinked at the scene in front of him. The man was seemingly unable to comprehend the bathtub overflowing with murky red water, an almost fully clothed Mike, bleeding and holding a razor blade reverently over an outstretched wrist.
The sound of Mike’s sobbing turned to unhinged laughter as Harvey finally seemed to return to reality.
“Holy Shit, Mike…” he gasped, rushing forward.
But it was too late and the blade was already embedded in his arm and all Mike could do was laugh hysterically as Harvey desperately tried to snatch it away from him.
“Leave me alone, Harvey!” The man snarled ferally, as he realized that the cut was not nearly as deep as he intended it to be, the other man having succeeded at snatching the blade a second before he had managed to yank it upwards, splitting open his skin and dealing the final blow- finally taking his own life.
“I hate you! I fucking hate you!” Mike screamed and thrashed, soaking Harvey in the bloodstained water. “Just let me have this one thing!” Mike was hysterical now, because it was clear that he was not getting his blade back, not the opportunity to finish what he had started.
But then he was smiling as a thought crossed his mind.
Harvey was so preoccupied with his own shock and desperation to keep the blade away from Mike that he had a single, fleeting second of an opening. And he took it, letting his body slide down into the tub, opening his mouth underwater and screaming.
His hands gripped the edge of the bathtub fiercely, and he felt like his fingers were being ripped out of their sockets as Harvey desperately tried to drag his body up and out. But he was resigned to win this one. Harvey couldn’t ruin this too. So he simply kept his head under the water, thrashing about until his lungs burned frighteningly and he felt the edges of consciousness slip away.
The last thing Mike remembers is the appearance of Harvey’s desperate, tear stained face above him. And then it was gone. It was all fucking gone.