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Chapter 25- with everything I have

TWs: self harm, blood, swearing, blade, sort of half panic attack

Clay's POV

I stood up as soon as I sensed George was asleep. The thoughts in my mind were hurting my head, giving me no room to breath. Tension and anxiety had been building up in me for the past few days, along with self-hate and distress. I was well aware of the beautiful interaction we just had, but it didn't take away the feelings from before- and the way George cried after I kissed him replayed in my mind. 

The insecurity I had always struggled with usually seemed dim when with George, he made me feel so important. So loved. He said he believed in me when not even I did, he lifted my head when it was hanging at it's lowest. 

But since my dad the comfort was gone. Because George hadn't trusted me, he had been afraid of me. Had been afraid of the way I looked and the person I was. He couldn't even look into my eyes without wincing, it was as if I was some kind of demon.

I had told myself that he loved me and just needed time, just needed some help. The only problem was I hadn't been able to help, meaning me in this equation was just useless. Our entire relationship seemed to be perfect and then something would ruin it. Would cause a mental breakdown, another problem, another stab in my heart. Another poke at my self-esteem. But it had been weak in the first place, so there wasn't much left to break.

I was already broken.

My sight was hazy as I made my way to the bathroom, stumbling slightly. Thoughts of self disgust clouded my mind, making it difficult to focus on anything. I didn't even bother closing the door behind me, there was no point. I was alone.

Why do I feel like this? So...sad. I had been fine. I'm such an idiot, it's all my fault.

There wasn't much logic behind anything I thought or did at that specific time. My hands just found their way to the handle of the drawer, tugging it open. I didn't even shake, or cry, or visibly panic in any way as I pulled out a silver razorblade and stared at it, turning it over in my fingers. The light reflected off the silver, looking almost beautiful.

Bitter beauty.

I was wearing short sleeves. Convenient. My mind still lacked any thought other than hate at myself as the metal got closer to my skin. Nor after it was buried in it. Tears fell, but it was all silent. I was expressionless as I raised the blade only to cut again, and again, and again. The top of my arm gradually grew more and more red as blood oozed out of deep wounds, getting on my shirt. I didn't really care. All of me was much more focused on how ugly, stupid, annoying, rude, hurtful I was. How much damage I caused people by just existing. 

How much I wanted to just...disappear.

And then the thoughts came, bringing along with them the pain. I cried out at the sharp feeling, staring down at my hand as if it belonged to someone else. There were about 10 cuts running up my arm, all of them deep and bleeding. Fear of myself filled my heart and I started panicking, breathing shakily. 

"Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck"

I gasped for air, looking up at the walls as they slowly pressed toward me. The only thing existing was the blade in my hand, the cuts on my arms and me. 

So I did the only thing there was to do.

Once again I lowered the blade, now with shaking hands, this time to my leg. Smooth skin split as I ran it once, twice, three times along my leg. And then again on the other, 5 times. 6 times. 10 times...

After a while I knew I had to stop. It was all so sudden, so intense. My blood dripped on the bathroom floor, creating a small pool. Everything about it terrified me but also brought curiosity. Curiosity about how it'd feel in other places- my stomach, the underside of my arm, my face, my chest, my nec-