I'm fine

Chapter 1

Before we start I know these were in the tags and the warning chapter, but I cannot stress this enough. Trigger warning for: heavy heavy subjects, self harm, suicidal thoughts, mental illness, ptsd, depression, dissociation, eating disorder type elements, panic attacks, anxiety, separation anxiety, flashbacks, and much much more please do not hesitate to tell me to tag anything else. I never want anyone to be hurt by this. Please take care of yourselves I love you so much. Take care <3

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Steven sighs staring up at the ceiling blankly.

He felt... numb.

It wasn't unusual these days, it started with an overall emotional outburst, a panic attack, followed shortly by this numbness and well... once he came down from that he finally got some release. Which was good. He needed that release otherwise he'd probably destroy the world he tried so goddamn hard to save. His whole life's work. Gone in a flash due to one of his stupid temper tantrums.

He's becoming more and more like his mother every waking second.

Disgusting.

It's ridiculous really. This schedule he has become accustomed to. He has no real interest to stop it, he'd rather die than let anyone know about this. He knows it's bad, deep deep down, but no one needs to know it's this bad.

They'd be crushed.

Absolutely destroyed.

He couldn't allow that to happen. His whole being... his whole purpose is to help them. Fix them. Make sure they feel good. Not make them feel how he's feeling right this second. He would die before he let anyone feel the way he feels right now.

No one cares anyway... well. He knows that's not true. The problem is that they do care. They really really do, it's just... why? Why did they have to care? It would've been so much easier if they just hadn't cared. The only thing tying him to this plane of existence is them. He knows how pained they'd be if he just... died. But it doesn't stop him from wanting death. No not wanting. Needing. Craving. He'd rather that honestly. Existing is just so... so exhausting .

He sighed softly to himself, sitting up for the first time in a while. The numbness is fading.

Time to get some release he supposes. Really this routine was detrimental to his health... did he care though?

Of course not.

He just needed some type of consistency to deal with all the change that's been happening lately. If he can just control this small part of his life- then he can survive. He can cope. For a little while at least.

And so he got to his feet. Pins and needles making his movement harder than it needed to be. Actually it caused him to fall down the stairs, face-first into the hard unforgiving wooden floor. It hurt, but he just brushed it off. It was nothing. He continued his journey toward the bathroom.

His hands wander down his torn up arms, he loved the feeling of the scabbed over skin beneath his fingertips. He loved looking at it all. All the pain he's caused himself made him... it made him feel . It took away that first initial numbness. Well, it usually did that anyway. It's all he can hope for and control at the moment.

Finally, finally, after that excruciating slow walk to his safe haven, he made it.

He fucking made it.

He made a b-line for the sink where he left his exposed blades and splattered blood all over the mirror and bathroom floor. He didn't bother to close the door either. Everyone was out. No one was home and they wouldn't be for a while. He's been alone for almost a week now. They were busy and living life to the fullest. It's part of the reason he didn't bother to heal his injuries or even attempt to hide it. No one even asked what he did with all his time, and if they did?