I'm Fine, Mr. Stark

Kicking Down Doors

Hey everyone! I'm on vacation in Sanibel, Florida right now and I love it here :) I should make a shoutout to @liveingprincess for this chapter. They had a good hand on the structure of this chapter, so thank you.
- solo una fottuta donnola

WARNING: puke and a shit ton of swearing. I snapped
Recap:
There, he felt the tips of his fingers flitting over a sharp razor blade. He gripped onto it tightly, hissing as the blade bit into his palm and his pocket became damp with droplets of blood. Peter brought it out with shaking hands, almost dropping it. The salt blurred his vision but he saw the flint of the light against metal. Methodically, he rolled up his sleeve. Past his elbow laid a littered battlefield of light marks, scars that should've healed but didn't. He drew the blade across his skin, once, twice, three times, the blood trickling down his arm and staining the white tiles.

The pain that erupted with the calm slice of metal on skin was nothing compared to the synthesized relief he felt with each cut. The blade collided again and again, his arm throbbed painfully, but he wasn't floating away anymore. He wasn't dying. He could feel air try to enter his lungs and tears were staining his face, but it was something and the unraveling was slowing.

Still, with that worldly feeling came pain. A pain he couldn't have imagined.

He bit back a scream, half of him wanting to just let go and let someone find him here. Half collapsed and dying, dying under the rubble. Crimson down his arms. Pulling himself back into reality.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Tears or blood? Stars burst in his eyes and he moaned quietly.

'Stop.'

Claws ripping across his arms and under his heart, prying and cracking him open like an experiment with no drugs. Because Peter wasn't supposed to medicate anymore, he couldn't do that to himself. It didn't work anyways. The steady dripping of copper blood on the tile brought him back a bit. It was an unearthly pain and Peter cried out again quietly, slicing again, again, again.

*************************************

Peter came down hard.

He didn't know when he decided he'd gotten enough, letting the small razor blade clatter onto the floor. He didn't know when, but he knew why. As the burning of shame began to take a grip on him, Peter started to realize just what he'd done. His head suddenly felt light and dizzy. A heaviness pulsed behind his eyes as he sobbed silently (IMMERSIVE ADDITION- it sounds kind of like the first couple seconds of Crossfire by Stephen.).Putting his head between his knees to stop the ache in his temples, the dizziness overcame him even though his eyes were squeezed shut. The blood ran down his arm still, and the methodical dripping of red onto the tiles was the only thing Peter could hear besides his own quiet cries. In his frayed thoughts he heard the screams of shame in himself. No, he felt them, reverberating in his painfully empty mind and shaking his whole body.

'Peter, not again- you promised, you idiot, you weak child, how could you again so soon-'

'I'm sorry,' he whispered to himself, to his own screaming self deprecation. 'I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-' it became a mantra paired with the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

When would it stop?

'I didn't mean to-' he said again. Again. It was always his excuse, but technically it was a lie. He begged his own self hatred for forgiveness. It would never be enough against the blinding panic when it came down to it- Peter would always choose the weak way out, knowing that soon enough he would do it again. But sure, he didn't mean it. Not really.