Snips and Skyguy One Shots

One Person

‼️tw for self harm‼️

this is based on my own experience with cutting, so i'm sorry if it doesn't seem accurate to you if you've dealt with the same thing

Why.

Why had he not been enough to get her to stay?

Why had he not been enough again?

Obi-Wan had told him that he should get himself into a routine to help cope with his spiraling emotions in response to Ahsoka's heartbreaking decision to leave him.

So, there he stood. In front of his bathroom mirror, razor in hand as he shaved the growing stubble from his face.

He was proud of himself today- he'd finally found the energy to get out of bed and dress himself in clean clothes.

Ahsoka had been gone for just two days, and he was already falling apart without her.

What had he even done with his life before he had met her? How had he gone nearly twenty years without her and her little quips and jokes to keep him company?

He lost focus on his task as he stared into his bloodshot, red wrung eyes. His hand shook, and the razor pressed just a bit too hard onto his skin.

He cursed under his breath as he pulled it back quickly, a tiny trail of blood already mixing in the shaving cream.

The small wound stung.

Anakin cursed again as he reached for a cloth to wipe the blood away. He was about to put pressure on the cut to ease the pain when-

No.

He froze.

You shouldn't.

"I shouldn't," he whispered, laying the cloth back down on the sink.

It's the galaxy's punishment to you for failing once again.

"I deserve this."

He squeezed his eyes shut and another tear fell.

You know what to do.

He rinsed the last of the shaving cream from his face. With a shaking hand, he lifted the razor up to inspect it- making sure it wasn't rusted before he did what he had to do. The cheap material clattered onto the top of the sink as he dropped it.

He rolled the sleeve of his flesh hand up with one, singular intention.

"This," he began in a whisper as he lifted the blade once again, "is for Qui-Gon."

Two more tears trickled down his face, and with no hesitation, he pressed the sharp edge of the razor to his skin.

It didn't sink into the flesh at first as he slowly slid it down his wrist- just scratching slightly.

Finally, he felt it bite into him. He forced himself to keep going until an angry red scratch appeared, dragging about half way down his forearm.

It didn't bleed much, but it hurt.

"This is for," he choked on another sob as he settled the razor at the spot where his palm met his arm, "my mother."

This time he applied more pressure in the beginning, wincing in pain as he felt the sting of the sharp metal pierce him.

He pushed slowly, allowing a second set of three lines to draw itself out on him.

He gasped as he pulled it away, the reality of the situation suddenly hitting him.