Not a Fan (Wilbur Soot)

Old Habits

tw: self harm (I know I said I wasn't going to put tw on chapters- but this chapter has very detailed descriptions of self harm, dissociation, and suicidal thoughts. Please don't read it if this will trigger you. There will be a chapter summary at the bottom)

My forehead? My fucking forehead. He'd rather kiss the top of my head than my lips. Why did I think anything different? 

Aurora retreated back into her apartment, not even bothering to turn on a light. She soon found the couch, collapsing on it. The sofa was firm and small, practically a just a loveseat, the complete opposite of Wilbur's. 

Stupid. Idiotic. Childish. 

Fucking worthless. 

Aurora's thoughts were like a rope, wrapping itself around her, confining her. 

Pathetic. 

Seconds turned into minutes at the rate of molasses. She rose from the couch, aimlessly pacing her apartment, running into stacked boxes she could barely see in the dim light. 

You are a complete and utter idiot. You ruined your first budding friendship with make-believe fantasies. Fucking idiot. 

The harsh voices in her head ran rampage, toxifying every thought. This self deprecating mindset wasn't something she had to live with while she was regularly taking her prozac. 

Can't even take my meds anymore because I dumped them all. I can't do anything right. All I do is make the lives of everyone around me harder. 

She eventually stumbled her way to the bathroom, clenching the sides of the sink with white knuckles. The silhouette of her reflection stared back at her like it was another person. It's eyes were dark and threatening, looking her over with disgust and contempt. 

Why am I even here? Why was I dumb enough to believe that this would fix me? There is no fixing me. I'm going to be like this forever. 

She swung open the mirror in a vain attempt to prevent her reflection from passing anymore judgement. The medicine cabinet held some pain relievers, allergy medicine, and a pair of scissors. 

She reached out for the scissors, holding the closed blades in her hand so tightly her hand began shaking. 

I'm right where I started. Nothing has changed. I'm still a failure of a daughter, of a friend, of an artist, of a person. Of everything. I've pushed everyone away. 

She sat slowly on the floor, the icy cold tiles seeping through her leggings, practically guiding her. She lifted her hips off the ground, pulling her pants to her knees. She didn't need the light to know where her raised white scars scattered across her thighs. She'd memorized each and every one of them.

You deserve this. You did this to yourself. You're worthless. 

Her hand continued to shake as she opened the blades, adjusting the scissors in her hands. 

I'm worthless. 

She wasn't even in her body anymore. Her mind had finally gone blank, her wrist pressing the sharp edge against her skin with a force she hadn't experienced in months. It was always like this when she cut. It was the only thing that could interrupt her inner dialogue. 

She hurt her body so her mind could rest. 

She barely felt the pain, often finding herself dissociated in the haze of nothingness that ensued after she surrendered herself to the act. 

Time moved on without her, leaving her to sit alone in her bathroom, blood dripping down her leg and onto the floor. The scissors fell out of her hand with a deafening crash against the tile, pulling her back to reality.