nothing fucking good.

chapter 11

(Authors note: It's 2 am, and i didn't bother to read this through, so beware, this is going to be ridden with mistakes. Trigger warning for manic episodes, eating disorders and self-harm.)

Bakugou sat in class listening to the science teacher drone on, as he noticed himself drifting off. Wanting to pay attention to class, he pinched his thigh rather harshly, but winced audibly when he felt the sting of pinching a rather deep and big cut. He froze and slowly looked up at the screen, noting how the entire class had stopped what they were saying and/or doing, to stare at their screens collectively. Katsuki's cheeks burned a bright pink in embarrassment, and tried to plaster a big scowl on his face to seem normal.

"Bakubro, was that you?" Kirishima questioned, sounding concerned.

Face burning brighter from the embarrassment of being questioned, he mumbled a response of, "I'm fine now. Ok?" The ok was fiercer, just to try and shut everyone up. But the worried expressions on their faces couldn't slip by Katsuki, and he didn't stop thinking about it until the end of class. He was so ashamed! How could he allow himself to sound so weak? It's just a cut, it had no right to hurt that bad.

Speaking of the cut, he ran to the bathroom and carefully stripped himself of his pants. Wincing in pain, he tried not to tear up at the feeling of the fibres of his sweatpants sticking to the newly infected wound. Once he had stripped free of his sweats and was left in his jumper and boxers, he sat on the edge of the bath tub and further examined the deep wound. The once bloody cut, had ended up yellow and wet looking because of Katsuki's neglect and lack of care towards the wounds he had created himself!

Cursing, he grabbed a stray rag cloth and ran it under cold water. In all honesty, he felt as if all his first aid training had gone to waste as he forgot everything as soon as he was in a situation he needed to remember it in.

He squeezed the rag until it was merely damp, then pressed it up against the flesh of his thigh. Gritting his teeth together, he removed it again and washed the odd liquid that has accumulated off it, to repeat the process. Confused, he had no real idea what the clear looking liquid was, but he did know that it leaked from the cut in copious amounts whenever he squeezed around the skin of it, or touched it in general. It was truly bizarre, but he could only guess that it wasn't a good sign. A healthy, healing scar should be a dark red and scabbing over, so that the skin under would be able to heal.

Being desperate, he opened his phone and rapidly searched up how to handle infected wounds.

'After the wound has been cleaned, dry it and keep it covered with antibiotic ointment, such as Neosporin, and a bandage until new skin has developed over the wound. If the redness continues to spread or the cut begins to ooze pus, seek medical attention. Don't try to treat signs of infection in a large cut at home.'

Standing in his bathroom with no pants, leaning over a sink, with a phone in hand, eye brows furrowed, he looked ridiculous, but his mind was riddled with worries. What if it ended up being serious and his parents found out...? He would probably just kill himself if they found out. He could only imagine what their reaction to all of that would be.

Desperate for his wound to never be discovered, he went through with the steps and wrapped a soft, dry roll of something around his thigh. Not knowing what it was, or really caring for that matter, he started to think about how much he needed to use to go fully around his thigh. So, before he secured it, he unwrapped it and took a good look at how long the meat of his thigh would be if it was laid out in front of him, and he wanted to gag. That couldn't be right?! It looked too long!

He didn't have time to think about that for too long, so he slapped it back over his thigh and pulled his sweatpants up to his waist aggressively and stormed out. Catching his mother in the hallway, she took a look at his angry expression and teased him with, "Who put a stick up your ass, huh?"

Rolling his eyes at her comment, he thought for a second, then his eyes lit up as he thought of the perfect idea, "Mum! Can I borrow one of those measurement thingys?"

A little confused, she raised an eyebrow, but went and retrieved one for her son all the same.

Left in his room alone with that thing, ruined him. He measured along his body and wrote it all down in an old, neglected school note book. At some point he had the strong urge to cry, believing that there were just too many inches.

He was utterly obsessed with the numbers. He couldn't get them off his mind, they were circling his brain like a pack of wolfs on their prey. It was going to kill him. He was convinced of it. He was going to die of insanity. He wanted to drown the especially big numbers, or cook them like bacon so they shrinked. That afternoon, he spent a good few hours romanticising about a million other ways he could abolish any and all fat remaining on his body. There were just so many ways, and he was in love with the concept of them all. When he clicked out of his daze, he near sobbed at the fact he couldn't literally scrape the fat off of him like the bark of a tree. He wanted nothing more than to scratch all the skin off himself to expose the fat lathered all around his body. He would expose it, so he could depose of it. The mere thought sent him into a spiral of thoughts about how he would rid it from the world. Maybe he could explode it once it was off him, or chop it up into a bunch of pieces and feed it to everyone, so they become fatter than him. It would make it so easier if he had no competition.

After spending the night falling into the addictive cycle of daydreaming again, he shook with anger and sadness. He grew frantic, and grabbed at his own face, desperate to identify and kill the fat cells. Being impossible, he slid off his bed in a sluggish fashion and crumbled like the sanity he thought was still remaining.

He knew he deserved it. But he still didn't want to admit it, so while he was breaking down on the floor at half 3 in the morning, he tried to hopelessly convince himself he was a good person, and that he deserved everything good that has happened to him. Even though he didn't. The way it was so obvious, killed him once again, and he felt the urge to kill it back. What would his mother say? The poor woman trying to get her broken son to eat properly. What would Kirishima say? The guy he had the biggest crush on, would probably think he was Satan if he knew. Why? Why was the only thing that his exhausted brain could manage to ask in the pitiful state he was in. Tear streaks running down his sunken face, leaning against his bed frame, head lolled back, feeling more dead than alive. How pathetic.