Mute |Shizaya| (Currently Editing)

Chapter 19 - Go Back To Sleep

"They asked me if I was afraid of dying. No. I'm afraid of living. Mama I'm tired of trying. Daddy ignore the screaming. Pretend the tears are salty waves of the ocean and the lines on my wrist are the lines of my art. Can I turn off the lights and say goodnight for good?"

Long pale fingers dug into jet black hair, yanking, pulling, tugging. Full nails raked and sunk into the flesh, the scalp going sore with abuse over and over again. Hands raking through the silkiness, being rough, causing constant injury. The writhing couldn't be heard, as it was being done silently. Pale skin on a face so skinny, now wet with salty water that rolled down in little drops, leaving a salty trail in their wake. Again, the fingers yanked though the hair, as a back caved inwards, shoulders rounded, skinny figure looked like a skeleton in more ways than one. Curled into a tight ball, sitting on the soft comforter of the cot, the silent pain continued to rage within the thin form, moonlight casted past the blinds in the room causing a faint shadow of the figure on the wooden floor. Pale limbs were too skinny to be healthy, shivering from the cold, and shaking from the pain. The silent noises of pure air would never be heard, as a mouth hung slightly open, tears rolling past the rows of white teeth and touching the corner of soft lips and down to a chin, and falling onto the floor with a soft yet silent 'pad'. Split and bitten lips were covered in crimson blood, contrasting with the faint pale shade of skin. Toes curled as more silent screams escaped, the tears only came down harder, the white knuckles of hands could be seen in close observations, the bony hands had enough force to ripped out the hair it had grasped in its faint tight grip of agony. The whaling was causing the body to shake, making the warmth feel cold, making the slightest of noises obnoxiously loud, the air escaping of the frail lungs through an open mouth.

It was driving him over the edge, he was going mad. Everything.... everything he had.... it was all taken away from him in a quick sweep of a motion. He was being driven over the brink of insanity, the pale eyes were dilated, shaky with the fear and the mix of anger inside him. He felt like he was in Wonderland, everything was seen through different eyes, circumstances had to be delt with differently, and the white rabbit wasn't there to lead him. Another silent scream escaped from the shaking figure, the two sleeping figures one door down were ignorant of what was going on in their extra room. Blood slipped, and would fall to the wooden flooring with the tears, and would create a mixture of both liquids, making it seem darker with no light being casted on it. It looked black, black as the young mans soul. As black as anything could be. It was indeed black to the sight, but in the light, it was red, it's true color. It was the same for the young man. He had no dark soul, his was fragile, also pale, and damaged. Dark to the thought, but pale in the light. Something that was constantly being damaged ever since he woke up from that horrifying dream, when he woke up in that deathly white room, with deathly white covers and floors, with deathly white machinery, and lastly, a deathly white patient.

Moonlight caught against the tears that clung to the dark black eyelashes, making them seem like crystals from afar. It was pain, pain being let out in a liquified form. It was agony being released from a depressed patient, and with no medication to help treat it. A hand was wrapped around the throat that once was adorned with white bandages, now decorated with scratch marks, that were slowly oozing the same red liquid falling from his writs in a slow tantalizing manner.

Another painfully silent scream.

Tears were falling faster and fatter now, the only thing that seemed to matter at the moment was trying to breath, not to stop the blood, not the tears. He had thrown the knife he had hid under his pillow from his earlier meal into the wall, out of his reach, so he wouldn't contribute to his demise. He had already caused enough damage on himself again, and he knew he was going to get chastised from a certain doctor later, just like every morning. Tonight completed a whole month of the same thing over and over again. Scars littered his wrists, thighs, chest, arms, and ankles. Sometimes short and deep, sometimes shallow and long, it didn't matter, as long as he felt the pain, and knew he was still a living creature. People seemed to forget that though, as people thought of him as the 'devil himself', but no one even tried to get past those well built walls and the plastered on mask and see the truth behind all the piled upon piled lies.