Arms

Prolouge*

Niall knew pain. He knew it well, and he knew it often. He doesn’t mean to do it. To pick up the blade and watch the light shine off the metal. Niall didn’t like the glare it gave, the way it looked deadly. He doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to watch the red streaks drip off his fresh scars, hitting the floor and making a small puddle. He doesn’t like to do it. He doesn’t like to listen to the words they speak about him. Fag, queer, fuck up. But Niall listens. He takes a note of everything he is, and everything he isn’t. Then he goes home, picks up the shiny blade that’s been used too many times. He cries, sobs, and repeats the words used a few minutes before.

And that’s where Niall is now. Standing in front of a mirror, looking over his too pale skin and many imperfections. Picking up the blade, holding it tightly in his clenched fist. The tears falling down his face as he unravels his hands and watches the light dance off the tiny object he held. It was a small little thing, spotted with brown dots of dried blood. He remembered each time he used it, each scar had its own story. It had a reason to be there, and he wouldn’t forget. He thought it was funny how something that small could give him so much pain, yet so much pleasure.

He looked over his bumpy arm, full of small lines. Some were red, dried over with blood, others were glazed over and white. He let his fingers linger over them, moving back and fourth in a swift movement. He squeezed his eyes shut as he lifted his head up to look at himself once again. He stared right into the eyes of his reflection, but all he could see was a blurb of blue. Not the pretty blue they usually were. They were a dark, rusty blue that he didn’t like. They were screaming at him to not do what he would do any way. But he ignored it, like always, and sat on the cool floor of his bathroom.

Niall sucked in his breath and he dragged the cold blade across his pale skin, waiting for the usual sting to return. It was a rush of exhilaration, as he quietly whispered that no one would ever love him. Repeating the same thing over and over, quietly so his mother wouldn’t rush upstairs finding him sitting in a pool of own blood. He continued to drag the small object over a different patch of skin.

The blood trickled down his arm as he stood up to grab a towel. The fresh scars let little balls of blood that fell, and fell, and fell. It was warm against his numb arm. Like warm water falling down his arm, but this water was red, and it was blood. Niall sat there eyes squeezed shut, letting himself scar his body. He moved his arms in different directions, feeling the warm liquid travel in new directions. ‘That’s it’ , he thought, forcing himself to finish up. He held the white towel to the arm with the new scars, the red liquid coming through to meet him again.

And that was that. He began cleaning the blood off the floor and stood up, wiping the tears off his cheeks as he walked into his room.