Mafia | Renhyuck

Part 3: The Early Morning

⚠️WARNING: Mentions of self-harm, blood, depression, eating-disorder, and anxiety⚠️

His hands itched.

Renjun clenched his hands around the fabric of his sweatpants and unclenched them.

He repeated the process.

His body shivered and he shook his hands out, trying to shake the nerves and urges that riddled his body. He needed to hurt. He needed to see the cuts on his arms and he needed to feel the pain to satisfy his craving.

He felt like he was going to lose it just sitting there. He stood up abruptly and walked back and forth talking to himself in the darkness that cloaked his room.

You don't need to. You don't need to. You don't need to. You don't need to. You don't need to.

Renjun looked at the knife he knew was resting on his bedside table, glinting through the dark with temptation. Renjun shook his hands again, clenching and unclenching.

Renjun felt his heart rate pick up and he felt nerves bundle through his body. He needed control.

Renjun lunged for the blade before his brain could resist and he yanked up his sleeve, exposing the old white marks contrasting the new pink and red ones. Renjun pressed the blade on his skin and part of him still resisted, debating, holding him back.

Renjun drew the blade across his skin with a quick motion, immediately rewarded with stinging pain and spots of red forming a cut.

Renjun could barely control his arm as he repeated the process uncontrollably, switching directions once to make several vertical cuts.

Renjun shakily stopped, placing the blade down forcefully on the bedside desk. He looked dissatisfied at the cuts on his arm, hand itching to make more.

He let his arm sting and throb as he rolled the sleeve over the bloody mess, not caring to disinfect or clean them. Why would he? It would only reduce his pain, something that he craved in these uncontrollable moments in the dark abyss of his room.

Renjun sat down on his bed, sighing as he felt some of his nerves and urges lessen. Some, not all. He felt the knife staring at him through the dark, as if to gloat at his failure. His failure to himself and to control.

Control.

That was what his sick mind told him.

If you can't control anything else, control this. But he knew that wasn't all the reasons behind his self-loathing. He wanted to. He wanted to see the scars decorate his skin and he wanted to hurt himself. To feel the pain physically that he feels mentally.

He knew he wasn't okay. He knew he was a freak.

But he would die before telling anyone that. Who would he tell anyway? No one in this stupid world cared about him anyways.

Renjun flung himself to lay down on top of the blankets, staring up at his blank ceiling. His arm ached and stung as the fabric of his sweatshirt moved against the self-inflicted wounds.

He didn't want to sleep. He knew that when he slept the nightmares came. But he also knew when he slept that his pain would go away for whatever time he was unconscious. It was a gamble. He'd either sleep with no burden or he'd sleep with dreams that plagued him when he woke, sweating and frantic to escape.

He decided not to sleep. Recently it had been more than not. Renjun sat up and walked over to his closed door, bare feet padding against the cold wooden floor. His room was usually cold.

He gently cracked his door open, walking out into the dark hallway. He grumbled at the lack of sight but made his way to the staircase with ease, he had made this trip many times. The dark was familiar to him.