You Belong To Me

Chapter 17

The all too familiar sharp pains of the fresh wounds on his arms woke Hizashi up once the drug had finally worn out. His arms were puffy and swollen, visible through the bandages.

Shouta must have overslept. I can't remember the last time I've woken up sober.

I really don't want to be.

He shook off that final thought, not looking away from his mutilated arms. The blood had soaked through the wrapping, leaving dry, crusted blood falling off whenever his arms moved. It made him nauseous.

At least, more than he already was.

Shouta was snoring away in his caterpillar sleeping bag, not showing any sign of waking up.

Hopefully he wouldn't.

Even though I need him. He's my only source for... all of it.

No...

I don't need it, I can't- I can't, I CAN'T.

He couldn't help but long for anything and everything inside that drawer. Whiskey, drugs, cigarettes, anything.

Shouta gave him all of it. For him, and him alone.

He wanted all of it.

Hizashi slammed his head back into the pillow with disgust upon realizing how he'd subconsciously started to get up to grab something.

What kind of fuckin hero am I? What kind of hero... Would go back to this life...

I've failed. As a hero. As a person.

What kind of hero just lets this happen?

Hizashi limped over to the food cabinet, trying to mentally settle for a snack instead, grabbing whatever he saw first.

When was the last time he'd eaten?

He couldn't remember. Hopefully Shouta had been feeding him something while he was high.

It was tough to even keep down a few pocky sticks. Eating was hard, he had no appetite and even thinking of food made his stomach twist. Probably because he'd already been nauseous from staring at his arms and watching the crusted blood fall all over his lap and blankets.

After setting the hardly touched box back, he went into the bathroom, defeatedly looking at himself in the mirror. It had new cracks on it. One of them had probably thrown something and broken it.

The vision from what was probably last night flickered in his mind. The third person view he'd seen didn't look too far from how he appeared now.

Hollow, sunken eyes. Flushed skin. Greasy hair, skeletal figure.

Disgusting...

He touched his fingers slowly to his cheeks, praying that the mirror was just distorted from the cracks. His skin was dry, and he could feel his cheekbones, which were protruding uncomfortably obviously.

All the time he'd spent fixing himself from last time, to make himself look... himself again. All gone.

Starting from square one. He had no idea how the hell he'd get through this alone.

Detox was awful. He'd been so painfully, horribly sick the whole time. It left him feeling like a broken shell of a person.

Laying in that hospital bed for weeks on end, pumped with different biotics to cancel the pure hell he was going through...

Doctors constantly in and out, checking his blood, looking so disappointed in him. They had to hate him, right? None of them would ever think of him as the great hero he was. He wasn't Present Mic to them, anymore.

It was all so humiliating, and all he'd ever wanted the whole time, besides his life to end, was just one more hit. He'd sobbed on his hands and knees for Nemuri to get him just one more.

She should've given up on him then. Shouta should've too.

Shouta knows how far I'd go... That I'd sink lower than I've ever been. He used this against me in the worst goddamn way.

It was the longest recovery in the world. He'd have nervous and depressive episodes that felt like his body was torturing him on purpose.

But they never left his side. Nemuri helped him restore his skin and face to how it should've looked. The healthy, full cheeks and bright eyes he hadn't truly had in years, with hair that shone like the sun once more.

Shouta slowly brought him back to who he'd used to be, bringing back the things he'd loved, one by one. Helping him grow back into the hyper, extroverted person he'd been.

Upon completing recovery, he'd gifted him one thing as a sign of recovery. A brand new start. The shiny, black and gold acoustic guitar he'd treasured with his life.

Anything involving that guitar was proof that he was alive. He was healthy. He wasn't failing. He'd won his battle.

I can do it again. I can do it... I can fix this again. Just... do what I remember them doing, all by myself.

Just a little at a time.

Getting in the shower and finally cleaning all the blood off his body felt like the biggest relief in the world. Washing his horribly greasy hair felt so euphoric, making him realize just how much his scalp had been itching.

He re-bandaged himself after, switching the old clothes and bedding out for new ones that were resting in the corner. The urge to wash literally everything there was overwhelming.

After he recovered, he was constantly on top of his hygiene. Even feeling the tiniest bit of filth on his body made him feel disgusting. His house was always neat and tidy, a contrast to everything littering the floor before.

He focused mainly on the blanket, using the hydrogen peroxide that Shouta kept with all the medical items to painstakingly get the stains out to the best of his ability. Then his clothes that hadn't been changed in god knows how long. He grabbed all the things he'd sprayed and threw them in the shower with hot water and tons of soap.

It eventually got done, Hizashi having to take annoyingly frequent breaks because his body was just too weak to do all of that in one sitting.

After it was all done, he finally rewarded himself with one of the bottles of whiskey from the drawer, justifying it in his mind. He'd been productive as hell. He'd earned it.

I'm glad I did that. Maybe I just woke up way early or something. The clock says 4. I'm assuming A.M.

He downed the whole bottle, resting on the brand new blanket, feeling awesome.

This was... nice.

I hope things stay that way.