Butterflies 🦋

...Click...

[ Just a warning, this chapter has mentions of self harm and other mental health issues. ]

He stares at the small clock on the bedside table. Watching and listening to the small clicks as one of it's hands moves.

Click....Click....Click....

“Fizzarolli?”

.....

“Fizzarolli?”
He jerks his head upward, tearing his attention away from the clock. “Hm? Oh. Sorry, Dr. Chestnut.”
She smiles at him gently. Cocking her head to the side and letting her light hair curl around her shoulders. “Just chestnut is fine.” She responds.

“I still don't believe your last name is chestnut.” The imp sits up in his hospital bed. Staring at her through the bloody wrappings around his face. “I don't mean it to be in a rude way; I've just never heard that before.”

She hums, “Well, I've never met someone so good at dodging my questions.”

“What questions? I don't see any. In fact, I'm not seeing very much of what's on my left side.” He jokes.
Chestnut sighs. “Fizzarolli, I'm only trying to help you. I understand that talking about these things is very difficult, but now isn't the best time for jokes.”

Fizzarolli groans and slumps under his blanket. “Funniest thing is, I can't exactly seem to remember ever asking for therapy.”

“This wouldn't be mandatory if it wasn't important,” Chestnut glances down at the small clipboard in her hands. “I understand that at two other points in your life you went to therapy. And that at one point you seemed to struggle with harming yourself, correct?”

“Oh yeah, I'm totally into masochism!” He chuckles.

“Please just try and take me seriously, Fizzarolli.”

Fizzarolli visibly stiffens, his mischievous grim twitches as though it's struggling to stay put. “That was when I was younger, it all doesn't matter now.”

“When was the last time you felt the urge to harm yourself?” She asks.

“When I was 23.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“When was the last time you actively and intentionally caused yourself harm?”

“I- Obviously I don't remember. About 21?” His gaze darts around the room, as if he's an animal in a cage.

“Fizzarolli.” She looks at him.

“What?” He glares at her, eyes betraying  his fear that he so skillfully portrays as annoyance.

“If you aren't honest with me, I can't help you to healthily cope with your truama.” She puts. An understanding look in her eyes.

He avoids her eye contact, and takes a shakey breath. Looking down so she won't see the tears forming. It seems like the silence could suffocate him.

Finally, an answer rings out. Voice raw, and small.

“Around three weeks ago.”

“Are you able to tell me what happened that caused you to harm yourself?” Her gentle voice interupts his sniveling.

“I-...I don't know. I guess, I've got this little old box I keep shoved somewhere it won't be found. It's full of shit from when I was a kid, the few things that survived the fire. Stuff I won't throw away but don't want to look at.” He lets out a slow breath, trying to blink away the tears and swallow the lump in his throat. “Something about seeing pictures of myself, from before-”