To Be or Not to Be | hamilton

two : alexander

{description of self-harm/abuse wounds, as well as the way long-term anorexia looks}
{im so tired excuse any weird writing errors}

"What is it?" Aaron, like always, was at Alexander's side, and as often around Alex, he had a look of concern on his face. "Alexander?"

"Someone is in our dorm."

"What?!"

"Yeah. You wanna go in first?"

"Fuck no, man. You go first."

"Oh hell no. I don't know who that is either! It could be a killer or something, I dunno."

"Rock-paper-scissors?"

"Rock-paper-scissors. Loser has to go in first."

And as it so happens, Alexander lost, Aaron won two out of three games, so he had to enter first- or, apparently, by himself ("I'll come in when it's safe," Aaron had whispered when Alexander tried to get him to go in.).

So, it was just Alexander and a completely random stranger. A stranger who could be a murderer, for all they knew.

It was kind of like a movie, Alexander realised as he tip-toed his way to the sleeping body. Like, the part when the music stopped and every time Aaron gripped Alexander's hand, and used the other to stuff his mouth with popcorn. However, there was no Aaron now and no popcorn and no screen- this was real life and Alexander had to deal with it like a man.

However, once he got to the couch, he realised that this man was not a threat: he was small in both height and width, with an innocent face. Alexander wondered what brought him into his dorm as he called Aaron in.

"We should, like, prank him," Aaron grinned once he looked at the boy on their couch.

Alexander laughed and agreed, before running to his room and grabbing everything he could to make the boy regret sleeping on his couch.

"Take his clothes?"

"Definitely," Aaron grinned once Alexander returned downstairs, his hands full of feathers, cream, rope, and other things to scare the boy. Without further ado, Aaron began to strip the boy of clothes as Alexander set the items aside.

"Uh... Alex?" Aaron asked.

"Hm?"

"Come here."

Alexander did as told, gasping at what he saw.

The boy was littered in wounds, his body a canvas and the paint on it shades of garish green, puckered red, faded white, deep purple, tan brown, nightmareish black. Shades of pain and misery.

Hand-shaped fresh purple and faded brown bruises were sprinkled on the boy's neck, upper chest, and stomach. Red marks, probably where blood was drawn or he was injured just short of a bruise, was in the same area, if various shapes and sizes. Alexander felt he was looking through the sickest, most gruesome of kaleidoscopes as he stared at the disgustingly tarnished, once-beautiful skin.

His ribs stuck out, as did his hipbones and collarbones and cheekbones and every other bone. Even with his pants on, Alexander could see the gap, and that frightened him. The frightening thinness of the boy was more than just malnourishment. Alexander himself had been malnourished, but he never looked like... that. No, it was self-inflicted. And that scared Alexander. The wounds also looked so bad, Alexander realised, because his skin was such an ashy grey, making any colour seem to pop. In more ways than one, the boy's skin had become a canvas, for the sickest of artists.

And his wrists... they had been sliced and diced like vegetables so many times the old, white wounds began to blend in with his skin, so great in number they almost looked like stretch marks.

There were fresh ones too, ones that had just started to scab over, so deep Alexander was scared to touch them.

There were ones that were a puckered red, red and angry, and there was every other stage in-between.

These were the same marks his brother had had on his thighs, and Alexander realised what it was- self-harm. It made Alexander feel sick.

Images of the boy crying upstairs, locked in his bathroom and sitting on his toilet, looking at his wrist with a blade in his hand, the boy perched over the toilet, his fingers down his throat as he began to get rid of the meal- or lack thereof- he had just had, the boy exercising for hours until he saw stars, his father beating him until he saw the same stars, passed through Alexander's mind, and he felt hollow. Empty. He blinked back tears as he looked at Aaron. "You... Aaron, do you know what this is?!" His voice sounded dry and drained, yet the crack in the middle of his friend's name revealed the emotion he was forcing down.

"No. I want to see the rest. It's... frightening, but yet it's something I can't seem to take my eyes off of... God... whoever did this to him is so sick... he's so skinny! And look at all the wounds..."

"Aaron. Look at me." His friend met his eyes, glistening eyes meeting dead eyes. "He has done this to himself. His wrists are his drawing board and he uses a razor to paint, or some other sharp thing. Whatever he can get his hands on. The way some of them are shaped makes me think it's more than just a razor. And... he refuses to eat. I've seen skinny, I've been underfed, but this... being starved to this degree is self-inflicted. Look at him! The other wounds... that's his home life. God, Aaron, look at how sick some people are. Someone has made him feel like he is fat and starvation is the answer and that same someone probably made him turn to pain for control. A-Aaron? Are you okay?" Aaron, while Alexander had been monologuing, began to tear up, and he looked at Alexander helplessly.

"We need to help him."