Stealth. (FtM Karl)

Shawty's like a melody-

(Don't fight me y'all, I asked for ideas and I thought this one went well with the others so shush)

Trigger warning:
-self harm
(If y'all have read 'Dysphoric' Dw I'm not going full blown detailed again)

RECAP ON NEXT CHAPTER! DON'T FORCE YOURSELVES!

Third person:

As the boy stared at the wall in a trance, he felt in a state not quite in reality, his mind raced as his body seemed to move on its own, his eyes blurred from the bitter tears that traced lines down his revealed face.

It's rare that someone can perfectly describe the feeling of addiction. In fact, it's hard enough to find that when searched, you will only find quotes about recovery.
Addiction holds similarities to a magnet, but no metaphor can capture the true attachment, guilty comfort, strong pull, enticement and regret that comes with an unhealthy addiction.

A coping mechanism.

One cannot put into words, that persuading voice in your head which fills your thoughts with words so dark that you never want to repeat them to another living soul.
That captivating urge, it stays, it doesn't leave till you listen to the voices, or you manage to stay clean for hours and hours.

Relapse.

The word is sore with memories. Dragging along the negative connotations stapled to its darker edges, clawing it's way into professional's vocabulary and relaxing in the back of our minds.
For some, the word means more than others.

But really, addiction is different for everyone. Yet, the feeling we feel is somewhat the same.
We feel an urge, a strong, almost magnetic pull that you just can't seem to shake.
We feel the fog, the clouded brain; it's like a dream, you don't seem to think about the logic at the time, about anything that's going on, but you will later.
The aftermath, after the deed is done, and regret and guilt sinks in.

Most of us have felt it.

And Dream was currently feeling it.

A feeling he hadn't felt in a long time; a feeling that not even Sapnap was aware of, and something he hoped nobody in his life ever would be.

It didn't seem like a bad thing, he just knew others felt that way. To him it was nothing more than a cope, a form of release when he felt pent up emotion he was unable to release, the emotions he had been told to suppress for most of his childhood.

As mentioned earlier, it felt like a Dream (lol Dream), he wasn't thinking in his right mind, nor did he feel like he was thinking at all for that matter. All he knew was the events that took place, the faces he had created in his head, altered memories each more worrying than the last, and that this was
somehow a comfort.

He didn't stop to think about the guilt he would feel later, the end of his clean streak, the many consequences that would soon take place.

Before he knew it, before the rational side of his brain could wake up and process the current situation taking place; a razor from the top left cupboard of the bathroom sat constricted in a tight grip between his thumb and the side of his index finger's knuckle.

He held a trembling arm over the sink and slid the metal across his skin, gently, but enough for the pressure and sharpness to create a small pink streak across his arm, almost immediately starting to fill up with a crimson liquid he knew all too well.

'Maybe only a couple' he had told himself. He may be out of it right now, but he still knew well enough that he still needed restraint.

But the view was comforting, much like the feeling. He didn't stop to remember the short amount of time that said feeling was around wasn't worth the actions taking place.
But small cut after small cut, they begun to litter his arms.
He had lost track and didn't care at the time.
Craving the free and refreshing feeling that came moments after the skin was broken, even if only for a short period of time.

"Dream?!" A voice almost echoed from within the house, a familiar voice he knew all too well.
'George.' He told himself, snapping out of his almost trance-like state.
He wiped down the razor, put everything back where it came and ran the tap to poorly clean the sink.
"Dream?!" The voice repeated.
The boy ignored the boy, hoping that perhaps he would give up and leave. Dream continued into the cupboard again and pulled out bandages.
He started wrapping his left arm, it wasn't the neatest, but it would do.

"Dream," He called, he sounded much closer than before, "Dream, I know you're in there, I heard the taps running."

A newfound panic, a sudden slap with reality finally hit him at George's statement. The moment of realisation had striked just like every other time.
This spark of alarm and anxiety urged him to wrap the next bandage around his right arm, a little quicker this time and definitely not tidier.

"Come on, I can hear you rustling around in there. Please answer me." The brunette exclaimed, trepidation laced his words with an unsettled tone.

Dream tried to reply but his voice felt trapped behind his throat, his words just couldn't quite make it. He cleared his throat, "George, what do you need?" He asked him, trying his best to act normal (or whatever normal was) yet unfortunately his voice provided a different implication.

"Dream, I saw. I followed you and you left your front door open..." he explained, "please talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." The boy responded a little harsher than he had imagined it sounding, clearly the anxiety part of a relapse kicking in.
'George is right outside the door. And my arms are a mess' he recalled, now fully aware of the few stains that leaked through as well as the pinching feeling of cry blood pulling at his skin as it was absorbed into and dried to the bandages.

"If you don't open the door, I will." He threatened.
"What if I'm taking a shit tho?" He joked, trying his best to make it seem like nothing was going on, but his laugh was painfully forced and George only grew more worried.

"Dream. Please open the door."