sdmn one sh~i~ts

Distance /wroetojzl

words: 1677
warnings: self harm ⚠️

(this is just a shit draft of 'relief' i'm so so sorry lmfao i hate this and everything pls forgive me)

It gets bad sometimes.

That itch, that urge, that feeling crawling under his skin. It manifests slowly, like shallow waves against the shore. But it builds, and suddenly he finds himself underwater.

Everything is at a distance, in a space he feels he can no longer reach.

There are voices, people who surround him. Though they're close physically, their voices are hushed, hidden behind a thick layer of fog. It comes back murky, and he can't understand their words no matter how hard he listens.

It's worse when he's alone. At least in the presence of others there's a semblance of sound, reality, even though he can barely make out any words. But alone, alone is the silence that's far more deafening than he's comfortable with.

It's when he's alone, that the guilt and the shame, and the endless thoughts of 'not good enough' run rampant through his head. It's the solitude that drives him crazy, that sends his brain into a spiral. The loneliness leaves him desperate for grounding, to prove that he has some form of control over himself.

It's a bad habit, Harry knows that.

But habits die hard.

And this one doesn't go down without a fight.

He's been so good this year. Ever since he and Tobi became official, things have gotten better. He's been better, had better days. Hell, he was convinced he was better.

But then the water hits his feet, and all of a sudden his head starts swimming.

Tobi isn't here. He's gone on a trip for business, not to return for another four days. And for yet another moment in his life, Harry is alone. He's alone, with no one to bring him out of this spiral, to breathe air into him when his lungs feel full of water. The silence overwhelms him, his head is spinning and spinning.

His fingers scrape across his forearm before he even registers it.

There's a trail of angry red in the wake of his nails. It stings- just barely, and Harry seethes harshly. His mind prickles at the sensation.

Not good enough.

He runs over the spot again, but the blunt edges of his nails aren't enough to ease his mind, to shut off the incessant tones in his head or to block out the horrendous silence of the apartment. His mind remains distant before he traces over the skin again.

This time, it stings.

Harry looks down, watching as red starts to bubble under the lines of his arm. Somehow, his body has moved on it's own, now grasping at the pocket knife Tobi keeps hidden in the box under the coffee table.

It's aggressive, the flow of crimson as it bubbles and spills, painting red lines down from his wrist to the thighs of his tracksuit bottoms. It stains the fabric, and Harry can't help but watch with some sort of surrealism. It's warm, hot, as it slides down his arm. But Harry still feels cold, frozen and distant.

It's not enough.

His body moves, completely on autopilot. Heat blooms from his arm, down to his trousers, painting the already dark fabric an even darker crimson red and-

and god, he's so tired.

He's exhausted of this, of drowning from no air, of sinking in darkness he can't see himself out of. He can't bear the distance, the fact that everyone is just out of arms reach. The silence is too much, and his mind is too loud.