A/N: Okay, no one's allowed to say I didn't warn you. This fic is angst- pure and simple. I may or may not give it a happy ending. I guess the tone of the reviews may help with that one. Who knows, right? Anyways, I started writing this one night- Well, no one cares about the who/what/where/when/how stuff, eh?
Warning: Do not read if you will flame. This is a controversial 'topic' and I don't want criticism- for me or the characters. I don't want to be told that Abby would never do that or blah, blah, blah... If you're think it, fine, but don't tell me.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. I have nothing to dowith what happens on the show. I like playing with DPB's characters and if you don't like what I do with them, oh well.
Rating: R for controversy and self-loathing... As well as self-hurt, etc.Not for sexual references or violence... If you want a pure sex fic, your not going to find it in here, okay?
October 19, 2004
Abby walked through her front door, her mind busy thinking about so many things all at once. She locked the door behind her out of habit, not so much because she thought she should- and certainly not because she really cared. As was also a part of her routine, she tossed her keys into the little tray on her kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes, landing them in the midst of numerous other pairs by her front door. She hung up her jacket in her hallway closet as she passed it, her mind still preoccupied.
Until she glimpsed her face in the mirror. She reached a tentative hand towards her reflection. Her fingertips touched the ice-cold glass and she yanked her hand away quickly- almost guiltily. Then, as though she had just remembered that it was her house and these were her things, she glared at it and rammed her fist into the image, hating what she saw in herself.
The mirror shattered and the black onyx frame fell to the floor. The frame, unlike the glass, merely split itself neatly in half- two almost symmetrical pieces. Abby stared emotionlessly at her now-broken favourite mirror. Eventually it was going to have to occur to her that she had just broken it for no real reason, but that really didn't matter at the time.
She suddenly wondered why the crystal-clear glass that she had always prided herself in keeping spotlessly clean was now turning deeper shades of crimson every second.
She looked puzzled for a moment before it dawned on her that it was blood. Probably her blood, now that she thought about it. She caught a glimpse of her hand out of the corner of her eye. It was most definitely her blood.
For a moment she simply stared at the blood streaming down her hand from her open wound. The deep red trails fascinated and immobilized her. As her blood- her life- leaked out of her body, she became aware that she was making a mess. Normally she would have been disappointed with herself, at the very least. However, she just casually headed towards her bathroom as though this was something that she did everyday when she came home from work. She even allowed herself to believe that it was natural for her to bleed all over her house and not even care.
In the bathroom, she half-heartedly- at the very best- pulled out gauze bandages, hydrogen peroxide, medicated cream and some cotton swabs. She tore open the bag of cotton swabs and dipped one into the hydrogen peroxide. As she pressed the soaked swab directly onto her open wound, she braced herself for the inevitable flash of white-hot pain.
It never came. She held the swab firmly against the wound for close to five minutes. Absolutely no pain whatsoever. She frowned and- even though the blood flow had slowed significantly- reopened the clotting wound. Once again, she soaked the swab in the peroxide- this time for at least twice as long- and pressed it mercilessly against her hand, which was bleeding heavily again. There still wasn't even the slightest bit of pain; not even a twinge or a throb.
She was curious now. Without stopping and really thinking, she took the swab off and tossed it into the sink with the other one. It never occurred to her to put either of them in the trash can. She stood at her sink, contemplating whether or not she was really going to follow through with this.
She had conveniently avoided her reflection throughout the entire time she had been in the bathroom. But now, she chose the moment to look up at herself, almost defiantly.
Something in her subconscious mind must have made her forcefully nod to herself. In any case, she was only aware that the mirror-Abby was telling her to do it. The mirror-Abby also appeared to be taunting her, as she managed to look both haunted and emotionless at the same exact time.
Abby looked down at her hand and then over at the full bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Without hesitating any longer, she picked it up, her hand trembling slightly. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep- if vaguely shaky- breath. As she poured the brand-new bottle of what should have been liquid pain over her cut, her hand was shockingly still.
Abby poured the entire bottle onto her open wound without feeling a thing. She didn't even flinch, though with that much peroxide, she should have been writhing in pain.
She watched the dark red streams run down the drain and smiled, almost cynically. Nothing was hurting. Or, well, nothing was hurting her physically. And if nothing hurt, then she could-
The phone rang, breaking off her train of thought. She quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her bleeding hand so as not to bleed all over her house. The blood was thickening already, but she wasn't taking any chances. Nor did she want to clean up any more bloodstains than she had to.
She picked up the phone and cradled it against her cheek. "Hello?" Her voice sounded monotonous even to her. Nobody answered. "Hello?" she tried one last time. She was met with a dial tone and wondered if she might have imagined the whole thing. She sighed and dropped the phone back into its cradle, chalking it up to having too much caffeine earlier.
Abby trudged irritably back to her bathroom, resolutely deciding to clean up now as opposed to sometime in the future. She shut the door behind her and surveyed the damage. Blood was sticking to the sides of her normally white sink as it dried. She wiped it off with a hot and soapy wet sponge before tossing the empty peroxide bottle into the trash can.
No pain… She had felt no pain.
She mentally shook herself and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She also tossed the blood-covered cotton swabs into the trash can. Abby decided against using the gauze bandage and medicated cream. She had used enough peroxide to ensure that she wouldn't get an infection anyways. As she stood on her tiptoes and put away the cream and bandages, a box fell to the floor with a thud.
Cursing under her breath, she knelt to pick up the box, thankful that nothing had fallen out. She stood and turned the box over, not remembering what it was. The box fell back to the tile floor with a crash that echoed loudly in the otherwise silent house. Abby however, didn't hear a thing; she could scarcely breathe.
The blades shone eerily in the bright light of her bathroom. They looked so soft; so kind; so welcoming. Who would ever have guessed that something so gentle-looking could cause so much external damage?
She picked up the razor, almost in a trance. She sat down by the toilet. It wouldn't hurt, or if it did, it would only hurt for a moment. She held the sharp blade against the flesh on the inside of her arm and dragged it down and across. Blood oozed to the surface and dripped slowly down her arm and into the toilet.
There was no pain, just as she had predicted. It actually felt good. She had forgotten how much power a sharp razor could have. The power to soothe. She had forgotten about how easy it was to destroy the pain.
She slid it across again, more determined this time. It bled faster and more freely than before. She couldn't stop now, even if she wanted to. Of course, it was quite obvious to her that she didn't want to. She had relapsed.
Ducky had snapped at her earlier for no real reason. Slice. All was now forgiven.
Gibbs had snapped at her earlier too, just because she had done her job. She had done a damn good job too. But she hadn't gotten the results that he wanted. Slice. How dare Gibbs insult her ability to do her job? It was the one thing she was proud of herself for. The one thing that she knew she was good at. Slice. She would get over it. Slice- deeper this time; the deepest of them all. It was Gibbs; he had been worried about Ducky. Gibbs had been forgiven too- it wasn't his fault.
Kate had ignored her all day. Slice. So had everyone else, for that matter. Slice. They were all just preoccupied, it was nothing to worry about really.
McGee had some sort of a relationship with that girl, Cynthia Something. Even if he had never slept with her or anything, he had treated her better than he had treated Abby in a long time. She had once thought that she was special. Slice. What difference did it make anyways? It was only McGee. Slice. That was mean. Slice. McGee had just been confronted with a past memory; that was all.
Sometime later- she never did figure out how much later- there were at least a dozen more slits on her wrists and arms. She stared at them detachedly, feeling much better about herself, the world, and everyone in it. She smiled at the now-raised outlines of the cuts. Now the outside of her body almost matched up with the inside… Almost.