SDMN| Stories

• BUTTERFLY | HARRY

"So did you get all that?" His therapist asked kindly, a gentle and tender voice shaking him from his day dream.

"Oh uh, yeah. Yeah like butterflies and stuff. Got it."

Blonde hair fell back over his blue eyes, hiding the lie in their depths. Nails scratched at his palm - the tell his therapist hadn't yet caught onto, which he would subconsciously do whenever he was talking about school, or to his parents about a test.

The red crescents on his hand were like tallies of his lies.

"Well, Harry, whenever you feel like... cutting, draw a butterfly on your wrist. You wouldn't want to hurt such a beautiful creature."

You wouldn't want to hurt such a beautiful creature, Harry.

It bounced around the dark corners of his tired mind, the conversation from only a week ago stuck on an endless loop.

His mattress sunk as he shifted his weight so his knees were to his chest, deep breathes failing to get enough oxygen to his aching lungs. Moonlight seemed to tap at his windows, however, the dark curtains remained closed. The dark room mirrored his mind, thoughts intruding to contribute to the swirl in his mind.

They worked to build pressure beneath Harry's skin, making him aware of an uncomfortable feeling of blood and flesh on his bones. Blood needed to come out.

Do it, Harry.
No one would notice.
You've earned it.

Tears began to prick at his tired eyes as he shook his head, trying to shoo the thoughts away.

If only he could sleep.

Insomnia has been killing him as the small pills he used to take ran out. Dark circles made their home under his washed-out blue eyes, making each blink feel like so much more effort.

There was no escape.

Shakily, he reached for the black Sharpie beside his bed, beginning to draw a small butterfly on his wrist.

As much as he told himself to breathe, the air remained uncooperative, forcing him to tuck his knees to his chest in a defensive position. Tears finally made their escape, running down his cheeks to pool on his sweat pants.

Silently he begged his thoughts to leave, he was only seventeen, he couldn't deal with this anymore. But the pressure wouldn't leave, he had to relieve it.

You can't let them down.
You know how long you've been clean for.
They'll all see the cuts and ask you.
You're going to be put in a mental ward.

Nobody even likes you, just do it, pussy.

Breath quickening, he went into a full-blown panic attack, both paralysed and itching to move as a swarm of bees stung his mind and ants crawled on his skin.

He was too exhausted to fight.

Guilt. That's what was is the box. Terrible thoughts with worse consequences. Insanity. The same cycle repeating itself over and over yet nothing changes.

Escape.

The box was in his clammy hands.

There was no light yet the silver stood out so prominently.

"I... I can't do this." The whispered words fell on deaf ears, cast away to the darkness he was succumbed to.

You have to.
You have to bleed, Harry.
It's the only way.

A spare glance was cast to the creature on his skin.

Butterflies. Natures beauty and grace, the gentle and delicate kiss of life in the cruel world. As light as the breeze on a warm day. Butterflies were the symbol of love and euphoria, giddiness that swarmed in your stomach when you see your favourite person.

They were life.

Anticipation slowed his movements and sped up his heart, the blade hovering over his arm.

Harry stopped, just looking at the poorly drawn butterfly.

You wouldn't hurt such a beautiful creature, would you?

Would you, Harry?

The blade was lowered as the tears stopped dripping down his cheeks. A small smile made its way to his lips. His heart slowed, breathing returning to normal.

The smile grew, however, his mind grew blurry. Cold metal made imprints on his hands and he held onto it for dear life. Laughter - his own - began to drown out the sobs.

Hideous, beautiful, sadistic laughter.

Harry decided as the blood dropped onto his sweat pants.

He didn't like butterflies.