Learned Behaviors | • • • | Blue Exorcist

Did I really...?

I woke up in a cold sweat, my mattress creaking as a shot up in bed. I wiped my forehead, my fingers coming away damp and I wiped them on my bedsheet to rid the feeling. Glancing around the dark room, I came to conclusion that it was still early morning. The only sound I could hear was Kuro snoring softly from the desk chair. I knew Yukio was still asleep, I couldn't hear nor see him, but I could sense his presence. Sighing, I pushed my blankets off my legs, turning to the side and pressing the heated skin of my feet to the hardwood.

I treaded quietly into the bathroom, closing the door softly before searching out the light switch and illuminating the room in a soft warm light. Through squinted eyes I found the medicine cabinet in the corner of the room. I really shouldn't be doing this, I should just go back to bed, but I was too far gone to consider it. Without a second thought, I walked over to the cabinet, opening the latch on the side and pulling the door open.

The contents were nothing interesting, just a few items for scrapes and burns and some pain meds. However, to the observant eye, something would be amiss. Reaching up to the top of the cabinet, I ran my fingers along the inner edge of where the door would rest. The lip was about an inch and half thick, large enough to hide exactly what I needed it to. My fingers ran over the wood grain, slowly trailing to the right hand corner where they finally tripped over a smooth surface. With my nail, I pried the tape off the cabinet, with it came my blade. I'd just replaced it, and the thought of the damage it would inflict made my heart race with delight.

I cast one last glance at the door, making sure I'd locked it, before sitting down on the edge of the tub. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, the cool air of the room hitting my slightly sweaty torso and I shivered. I pulled my long sleeves off my arms and tossed the garment to the side. Without much thought, I brought the silver paintbrush to my canvas, pressing hard and finding relief in my abstract art. Each crimson line added depth, and I admired my progress with each sweep. After a half dozen passes, I set my tool down and watched as the red paint steadily dripped to the bottom of my canvas and splattered to the floor, creating its own art.

With adrenaline and endorphins coursing through my veins, I sighed in relief. This feeling never got old, every cut brought the same pain, and the same relaxation. Over the years, I had perfected this art, finding ways to make it hurt worse, bleed more, get deeper, all without causing myself serious damage. Even if my torso was scattered with these scars, I didn't want it to extend any farther below the surface. Nerve damage and sliced tendons were not part of my plan, nor would it help me keep this a secret from anyone. I had the perfect balance of severity and caution, but I still feared the day it wouldn't be enough.

Because eventually, even this won't be enough.

One wound turns into five, cat scratches turn into gaping lacerations. Small bruises morph into fractured bones, and simple burns slowly grow to third degree. You'll always crave more, inching your way into insanity, until you delude yourself into a false sense of perfection. You believe that you're the sane one amongst the crazy. That self harm shouldn't be a taboo like society tells you, that you know something that others will never understand. And while that statement has truth to it, you hold on to it dearly, desperately telling yourself that you're perfectly healthy and you don't need help.

So do I need help? No, not me. If I were human, if I were innocent, a fragile teenager who lost their only parent and role model, an absolute pity; maybe then I'd need help. But I wasn't that, I was spawn, a weapon of mass destruction, an abomination lucky enough to breathe the air on this world. I was lucky to be alive, I'd be selfish and greedy to ask for happiness as well. I was envious of my classmates, even if they had their own problems, they had the privilege of being human. They could live their lives how they wished, dying from old age or some horrendous illness, but at least they wouldn't have a countdown above their heads, or crosshairs constantly aimed between their eyebrows.