Paper Wings||Richie Tozier x reader

9

TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM

I woke up this morning, feeling unhappy. Although, I'm not sure why. What's there to be unhappy about? Cause I can't think of anything. I shrugged the feeling off, as I reassured myself that this is a normal thing for me, to often feel unhappy, especially about waking up. Because I do feel sad a lot, without even a reason. I pushed all sad thoughts aside and walled in the direction of my closet, grabbing a black off the shoulder shirt, and grey shorts, I walked into the bathroom and brushed my matted h/l  h/c hair. I pulled it into a high ponytail, and looked in the mirror. I frowned unintentionally and slammed my fist against the counter in frustration as I looked away from the mirror, my frustration turning to shame as I thought of how pretty Bev had always been compared to me. I don't know why she's so much prettier than me. She kind of just...is. I've always thought so, and it seems like my opinion on that topic, isn't changing anytime soon. I glanced back up at my reflection, instantly becoming more and more sad. The insults swimming around my brain, yelling, screaming at me as I stared at my reflection, feeling rejected by myself.
The more I stared, the more I thought. About everything. And I felt worse as the though of my old school came crashing into my thoughts, stomping through my mind as I though of what it was like back in Canada. My frown deepened as well as my mood. I groaned and tore my eyes away from my reflection, my own mind once again, turning against me.
And at that moment all I could think about was blood, blood, and more blood. My own. My mind was telling me to spill it. All of it. All over the floor. Telling me I deserved it. Telling me every bad thing anyone had ever told me. Anything I had ever told myself. By the time I reached my room I was tearing up at how my mind was attacking me. And I thought about how this was exactly like before I moved here. And a little after that too. It had taken me about a year for me getting rid of my thoughts, that were weighing me down, getting rid of my depression, and most importantly, stopping myself from self harming. It seemed as though I was about to relapse. But I don't know why. I just woke up, and....I felt like this again. My therapist told me this happens, rarely, but it happens. I haven't talked to her, in three years. And o don't want to ever again. But my thoughts, the bad ones, they seem to have found a damaged part of me to let them back in. And I sat on bed. Staring at the floor below me. And I thought. About what was happening in my head. How I wanted it to stop. And then I had a new idea. What if they came back. My bad thoughts. Because my heart is in distress? What if these awful feelings, are just telling me, I need to relapse, to feel better again. To feel one hundred percent better?
Because I never felt completely better. Even my therapist told me I might never feel completely better, or it might take a lot of time. But, what if now my mind is telling me that every broken part of me, is ready to feel better? But what if I want to relapse? What if this is just telling me, how much I miss the feeling, of dragging that blade across my wrist, letting the blood flow free, letting go of my stress and every bad thought, because what if I miss it? I mean, I do miss it. Because after you stop self harming, you feel like somethings been lost, after a while that goes away. But sometimes you remember, and do miss it, I've missed it before at random times, things trigger it. Like sketchy strangers walking by, or someone making jokes about self harm or suicide. Because they don't know that I felt like that. Like I feel like that right now. And so, I thought. This could be good. Because I have always believed, that self harming isn't bad. And that I have the right to do it. It's my body. And if it's helping relieve stress...how bad can it really be?
But...where did I stash my blades after I stopped self harming? I think, it was buried in a box that I put on the top shelf in my closet. I grabbed my chair from my desk and stood on it, so I could see over the top shelf in my closet, I scanned for the box and my eyes settled on it immediately. I put all my sad drawings in there with my sharp items that I used to....self harm...with.  I grabbed it eagerly. Cutting is like a drug. Easy to get attached to, hard to quit. And even easier to get addicted again. Because when you start self harming, you start enjoying the look of it. The look of every droplet of blood that for,s on the fresh wound. And you want more. You start wanting pain. So you look for it. You start burning yourself. Giving yourself bruises. Hurting yourself in any way, just to feel a little better.
I hoped off tue chair and placed it back at the desk impatiently. I locked my door and sat on my bed. Suddenly I started to cry, hysterically. I was almost having a fit. A minute later I was inhaling and exhaling deeply, it had been so long since I had thought about cutting, I can't believe that I'm sitting here, once again telling myself it's not wrong to cut. Because like I said. I've never thought it was bad. Because it's not. But it is to other people. That's why I stopped. I was tired of people telling me it was bad, judging me. Giving weird looks if they happened to see past the 17 bracelets I always wear on each of my wrists, to cover the past scars. And soon to be new ones.
I took a deep breath and grabbed one of the sharp objects from the box. I took one that wasn't small, but wasn't my biggest one either. It was my favourite one, always had been, it was the sharpest and was shiny and pretty. I held it up slightly as my fingers traced over the edge of the blade. I pit it to my wrist and was ready to feel better. I just want these thoughts to leave, or don't I? I don't know anymore. But I want to. I have to. Ugh. Let's just do it. Who cares?
I roughly pressed the sharp edge to my wrist and slid it harshly, feeling a burning slash tingling sensation in my wrist, I looked down on it, letting out the breath I was clueless that I was holding until It escaped my mouth.
I watched the blood slowly rise from beneath my skin, as I did another, and another, and another. I continued, the satisfaction lingering as I looked glanced at the open cuts on my wrist. I felt better.
I looked at the blade and slashed once more, it was comforting, I know. That sounds awful. But it's true. It was comforting knowing my best tactic for stress relief, anger relief and anything relief was an option again.