Work Text:
Cutting was the only thing that got rid of his hallucinations.
Not pills.
Not therapy.
Not stupid fucking hypnotisms.
But the real, sharp feeling of a blade in his arm? That shit fucking worked.
His stupid therapist hated it. She told him all about how it was an “unhealthy way to deal with it” and “would likely just lead to other issues.”
He didn’t give a fuck anymore.
He was tired of feeling crazy. Of watching cruel and violent visions play out in front of him while he was helpless to stop them.
So he started keeping a razor blade in his pocket again.
And maybe he was lying to himself because it only really helped some of the time.
But there were times when it had worked, proven to him that what he was seeing was fake when it fades away from the pain. Or reminded him that he was alive and seeing something real when nothing changed after he cut. It was relieving, it made him feel like he could be in control again.
Unfortunately that control didn’t last long.
Since his hallucinations were a product of his own mind, his brain decided to be a real dick. Now there were times when his hallucinations were the ones to tell him to cut, so instead of grounding him in reality the act just made what he was seeing feel even more real than it usually did.
For some reason that didn’t stop him from doing it.
He would drag the blade through his skin to let as much blood as possible ooze out of each gash. It would leave dark marks in his arm that would take weeks to fade.
He wished they didn’t fade at all, wished they stayed gouged into his pale skin muddling his arm with scars he could never erase.
He didn’t bother waiting until he thought he was seeing things to cut anymore. Maybe it couldn’t pull him out of hallucinating but it could ground him during the day, snap him out of the depressive numbness and let him exist for a little bit.
And it was surprisingly easy. No one cared when the weird guy started only wearing long sleeves. His parents never noticed that the first aid kit had been emptied of all the gauze and medical tape. His therapist never bothered to bring the subject up so he didn’t even have to lie about it.
In the movies when someone cut there was always some dramatic reveal and heartfelt conversation after their sleeve falls by accident, or their friend notices they’ve been acting different.
Well he wears sleeves that fit and only hangs out with people in order to bum joints from them in exchange for liquor he stole from his parents.
He supposed his only risk would be when he’s sleep walking. But no one gives a fuck about what his wrists look like when they’re too busy trying to get him off their front lawn so he really didn’t have much to worry about.
So fuck you dumb movie troupes. This guy knows all your stupid tricks and is thankfully too much of a looser to fall victim to them.
He can cut and cut and cut and go crazy in fucking peace.
Except for that god damned therapist. That bitch would not let up and just kept making him try dumber and dumber shit as if it would magically cure fucking schizophrenia if he just started journaling about his dreams and saying positive things about himself. He wondered if she actually thought that any of this shit would work or if it was just some front to look she was doing something so his parents kept paying.
The voices agree with him for once that it’s the second one.
That’s the other thing, sometimes the voices he hears would tell him he was better off going crazy, that it was the closest he was to being himself, to being alive and he should just go insane until it kills him.
He agrees with them sometimes.
Because most of the time he’s tired of it, sick of being the freak who imagines shit all the time and is the sleep walking terror of the town.
But there are times when it feels like the only thing that makes sense. Everyone else are really the crazy ones and he’s seeing the truth.
That’s probably just another shitty coping mechanism.
Does he even care anymore?
He was smelling blood a lot lately. He didn’t know if it was because of the bloody bandages on his wrists or if it was also a hallucination. He couldn’t exactly ask someone to confirm it for him, what was he supposed to do? Say, “Hey Mom can you smell my wrists real quick so I know of I’m just imagining that I can smell blood or if it’s because I’ve been mutilating myself? Thanks have a good day work.” She was already worried about him all the time and that would probably be the last straw she needed in order to send him off to an institution. He wonders if he would fell more normal there or if it would just make everything worse.
He doesn’t really want to find out.
He’s decided he’s just gonna keep spiraling. Keep getting worse and worse until he can no longer function properly and pray that by some miracle he doesn’t die completely alone.
Maybe that’s why he’s okay with seeing things.
Because even if they’re all in his head, at least he won’t be alone when the reaper comes.