OSC One-Shots

[3/?] MePhone4-centric | Goddamn These Hands of Mine

Word Count: 2,023
Tags: References to abuse, neglect, self-harm, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanisms, heavy angst.
Vent-fic, proceed with caution. Do NOT read if you are not in the proper headspace.
On Ao3, this is posted as three separate chapters. I put them all together so that it's less messy to look at when you view them.
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Residing in the bathroom, MePhone woke up having a bad day. Ever the early riser, the night before he thought that he would have a dreamless sleep- as per typical for the majority of his nights. Yet, last night was different, unnerving as MePhone thought about it.

Frankly, it made his skin crawl.

It always seemed like everything centered back to Cobs, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

Sitting on the cold tiles of the restroom, held tight in his hands, the blade reflected against the flickering light. Somehow, the phone could see himself in the pathetic bulb. Try as it might, it will always back down, it will always silently flash. MePhone took a mental note to tell OJ that the bathroom lightbulb was having problems again, later.

Later, when MePhone wasn't busy focusing on himself, on his wellbeing- on tearing himself apart.

Pressing against the soft silicone of his artificial skin, MePhone took the first swipe. White to an oil-ish blue, as per typical. A routine, a cycle.

A bitter part of him relished in the feeling, seeing the blue substance slowly peak out of the faux skin. The skin created just to imitate a living being; the numbed pain spreading through his thigh.

Most days, MePhone didn't mind the body he inhabited. Often, he didn't even realize that he was in this body. However, it was another reminder of who manufactured him. Another reminder of another fuck-up.

Something irreversible, something irreparable.

Biting his lip, he swiped against his skin again. His thigh, littered with scars already, becoming poorly decorated with many more. The blue blood beaded up, sliding down his thigh like butter sliding across a hot pan.

MePhone does it again and again, stares as the oil spatters across the once-white tiles- now splashed with blue. If it stays there for too long, it will stain.

It's not a bother, considering how this is a personal bathroom attached to his hotel room. He's sure that the only person who will walk in here is Soap, OJ, and possibly Paper- and even then, he rarely gets any visitors. MePhone knows how to handle himself, knows how to take care of himself, because God knows thar Cobs would have never been able to.

Perhaps it's a good thing that he rarely gets any visitors after all.

The taste in the back of his throat is bittersweet, yet as he slashes his thighs over and over again, it's even more bitter. Stuck and viscous like mucus.

Unless he replaced the parts itself, the scars will stay. Some bright blue while others were dark and murky, all with their different stories and scenarios forgotten by his blade.

Ruining himself has never felt anymore relieving, it seemed to be the only thing that could fix him. Free him.

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The thing about getting worse, MePhone realizes, is how easy it is to fall back into a cycle of old habits.

There was a wicked thing of having a repeat of a bad thing, over and over.

A promise of, "I'll stop tomorrow," turns into "I'll stop eventually."

Eventually morphs into blurry dates and an even blurrier memory, to the point where MePhone doesn't recall what he has done over the past decades- doesn't recall what he has become.