I thought this up when I was talking to one of my very close friends. I am not nor was I ever a cutter but times get tough for teenagers and we all need to find a way to cope. This is all my own thoughts so there is no need for a disclaimer.
Warnings: self mutilation, sexual abuse and physical abuse with a little bit of drugs in later chapters if I continue
Les stared down at the blade. It all seemed so easy. Just put it to your skin and pull it across the voice whispered. He cringed as the cold blade touched his skin.
"I shouldn't," he said pulling it away quickly. Go on it whispered patiently no one will know. It will make you feel better. Could that be true? Could watching yourself bleed really bring some sort of release? He was so desperate he was willing to try. Taking a deep breath he raised his arm and placed the blade against the pale skin there. Closing his eyes he sliced the blade across the middle of his arm. When he opened his eyes again, dark red blood was creeping down his arm. That was him. His life running out of him, he was alive. Something in him triggered and he let out a long sigh. It didn't hurt at first, but as the air started to hit the wound it stung. He hissed at the pain.
This is good. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To know that there is other kinds of pain. It was right of course. It was always right. Drops of blood began to hit the floor. Les wiped up some of the blood with his hand and took the towel he had brought up earlier off the desk. He sponged up the blood, causing the white of the towel to be stained with red.
"Fuck. What did I just do?" he asked no one holding the towel to his still bleeding arm. You did what you needed to do. You made yourself feel better. No one else would do it for you so you did it for yourself. You helped yourself survive. And that blood is proof that you survived. You are a survivor. You are strong.
Funny, he didn't feel strong. He felt stupid, but it somehow felt good. He felt like he was proving something. If he couldn't show his emotions verbally he would show it physically. The bleeding slowly stopped and he put the towel down. He looked over and saw the knife, perfectly clean despite what it had just done. Go on, pick it up. Practice makes perfect. Soon it will feel great and you know it. Les picked it up again and examined it. It had made such a mess of his arm yet remained perfectly clean, its actions undetectable. He raised his arm again and made another slice a few millimeters lower than the previous one. This time he watched the blade go across his skin and do its work. The blood ran out again and for the first few seconds there was nothing, then the sting. Then the realization of what was happening and it all felt wonderful.
Yes, see there you go. I told you it would feel good. Did I lie to you? Did I lie like He did? No. Now that's enough, save some for later. And Les stopped. He blindly followed the voice and drunkenly watched the blood. He grabbed the blood soaked towel and repeated his previous procedure. When he was done, he threw the towel in the laundry basket and went to the bathroom to wash off the rest of the blood. His movements felt robotic and he felt as though he was not the one controlling his body. The water turned red and drained down the sink.
Les pulled down the sleeve of his shirt to cover the marks and stashed the knife under his mattress along with the other things he didn't want Him to get. It wasn't much. His mother's wedding ring and the gold necklace she used to wear. These were the last items of his mother's jewelry that He hadn't pawned off as soon as she had died in the fire. Les looked at the bed and cringed.
Sleep didn't come easily anymore. Would He come? Or would he leave him alone? And even if He did leave Les to sleep, it wasn't peaceful. He haunted Les's dreams and made him wake up drenched in cold sweat, always afraid that he would look over and see Him.
He can't hurt you as much now. All the hurt he puts inside you, you can get it out now. Les nodded. It was true. There would never be a solution to his problem, but at least he could deal with it now. Les got up and pulled the sheets off the bed, throwing them with the towel into the laundry basket and getting a fresh set from the linen closet. He re-made his bed and then jumped on it, relaxing into the clean smell.
You see? Everything is fresh and clean now. Even you are. He tries to make you dirty, but you cleaned yourself. He can't hurt you as much anymore. Les sighed and closed his eyes. The front door opened and shut.
"Les," a voice called. Les's eyes shot open. How could He say that one word so many different ways?
"Les! You broke it didn't you? You are a bad boy!" A slap and then stinging pain. The burn of tears.
"Les, Happy Birthday! Now make a wish and blow out the candles."He did. And he made the same wish every year since his mother had died.
"Les, how was your day?" Fine until He had gotten there.
"Les, it's ok. You like it don't you? I'm doing this for you." No it wasn't for him. Nothing was ever for him.
"Les!" He called again. Les rose slowly from his pillow and made his way out of his room. "Hey there, sport," He said in mock kindness from the bottom of the stairs.
Look at how he lies. He smiles like everything is ok. He has no upper hand over you now. All the hurt he put in you is gone now. "Hey." Les's voice sounded dry and flat.
"Well come down here, it's time for dinner. I brought your favorite." Les froze. This always meant the same thing, now he would owe Him something. And he knew what He would want.
"I-I'm not really hungry today, Dad," Les said, praying it would work and he would have to sit through a torturing dinner with his father. But He looked up at him scowling.
"You're a growing boy. You need your food. Now get your ass down here and come eat your dinner," He said dangerously. Les gulped and nodded. He made his way down the stairs, passing under his father's piercing gaze and making his way to the dining room.
The food was tasteless as it slid down Les's dry throat. He wanted to eat as quickly as possible, but he also didn't want to go to his room for the horrible wait he knew he would have to endure. The conflict made his head hurt. As if to help him make his decision. His stomach groaned.
"I-I don't feel very well," Les said. His father got up and walked over to him. The hair on the back of Les's neck stood up and he tensed up. His father put his hand to Les's forehead.
"You do feel a little warm," he said.
"Can I go to my room?" Les asked hopefully.
"Sure. I'll heat some up for you later if you're hungry."
"Thanks." Les got up and almost sprinted up the stairs to his room and closed the door. He sighed and looked around his room. The walls were bare and there was nothing but a large rug on the carpeted floor. This room had at one time been his sanctuary, but now it was his prison, just like the rest of the house. He went over and flopped onto his bed, burying his head in the pillow. With all the fear and frustration that had built up in him since his father had come home, he screamed into the soft fabric. He panted after a few seconds and then repeated the maneuver.
Finally, Les could scream no more and he turned his head to the side, breathing in cool air for the first time in several minutes. He turned the rest of his body on its side and closed his eyes.
Les woke to someone rubbing his side and breathing in his ear. The room was totally dark.
"Hey, sport, did you like dinner?" a voice breathed and hot steaming breath hit the back of his neck, making him break out in goose bumps. Les gulped. He didn't want to respond, but he didn't have a choice. Nothing good ever came from him ignoring a question. He nodded, not turning even as he felt the bed sag under the weight of someone else. A heavy, strong arm wrapped itself around his front. Les struggled to breathe normally.
"I'm glad," the voice whispered. The arm snaked its way under his shirt.
Ok I'm gonna stop it there. If I get enough reviews for people who want me to continue then I will if not then I'll just leave it as is. Ok well hope you enjoyed it.