Perfect Screw Ups | Quackbur

Chapter Twelve

TW/CW:

S/h, hateful body image

⚠️PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS IS TRIGGERING FOR YOU, I DON'T WANT ANYONE GETTING NEW S/H METHODS, PLEASE LEAVE I CAN GIVE U A RECAP⚠️

Where am I now?

How far have I come?

I don't know. .

Truthfully I feel that I have not changed at all, yet I can feel the change deep within my bones.

I can see the change even in my hair, the length it has gotten. I've been too lazy to cut it, and I don't think I will.

Sally and I are still together. I still love her, I don't know if my heart could ever truly stop loving her.

Even if my heart finds someone else, I think that the thought of Sally will still linger. .I can't forget her.

I decided to pack my things and move into Sally's apartment. She said she wanted me closer with her, she didn't like that she wasn't allowed to barge in whenever she wanted now that my mother returned from her trip.

Her apartment was small yet spacious. It felt normal again, we'd fall asleep in each other's embrace, the mornings filled with giddy kisses and laughter.

But then she began slipping through my fingers again. She came home late, walking lopsided and falling against the tiled floor. Vomiting everywhere and spewing slurred words.

Sally loved clubs. Much like Quackity she spent a lot of her time drinking the nights away.

I was more of a smoker, the loud music drove me half insane most times. But every now and then Quackity would take me to the club for some drinks which I didn't mind. Mainly because he was nearly impossible to refuse.

Quackity and I had stopped talking as frequently. Some days when I knocked at his door he shouted for me to leave.

That was until one day my curiosity had gotten the better of me. .

I can recall the events clear as day, I can never forget. .

I had walked up to his door, longing to just spend some time with him. I wanted to just watch a movie. But when I knocked there was no answer. The door just opened. He must've been in too much of a hurry to lock it.

"Quackity?"

I heard shuffling and grunts.

All the lights were on and I walked to the bathroom, the door slightly open and an awful smell coming from the room. I couldn't ignore it.

I pushed open the door and felt my heart plummet to my stomach. .

Quackity laid on the floor, his pants were pulled down and there was a discarded blade on the sink, still stained red.

There was rolled up toilet paper painted red in the trash bin as well.

His cheeks were tear stained and he was whimpering, he seemed to not have any more tears left to shed. Though he clearly ached to sob even more.

He seemed to not even notice me. His eyes were focused on the wall and he was trembling, obviously drunk.

I noticed the horrible carvings on his thighs. .

It was everything I wished I'd never see. I didn't want anyone to be like me, ever. I didn't want anyone to have to understand the pain that I felt. Especially not my best friend, the man that meant the most to me.

"Quackity!" I blurted, not being able to contain myself. Tears pooled in my eyes.

Finally he acknowledged me, his eyes scanned my face. Then finally he understood the situation.

His face contorted with panic and anger and disgust all at once. Then it was painted with shame.

I knew the feeling all too well.

"Get out," he said.

"Qua--"

"Now!" he shouted at me. "Leave!"

I can't leave him like this. But then he raises an empty beer bottle. "Go."

I frown and leave the house.

Why? Why did this have to happen? I can't let this happen. He can't be like me. I don't want him to feel this way.

But there's nothing that I can do. .just hope that he isn't braver than me. Just hope that he doesn't take the extra leap and leave me for good. .

After that event I started to notice more things that I've been oblivious to. How Quackity always seemed to have alcohol nearby. How he hardly left his house. How he was always itching at his legs. How he always met me with puffy eyes.

Quackity was only getting worse and I didn't know how to help. Am I even in a place to help him? I can hardly help myself. .

And I'm disgusted with myself because his scars make me wonder if I even have a reason to cut.

Why are they deeper than mine? Why does he have more? Why don't mine look like that? Should mine look like that? I need to do worse. So much worse. So that I can validate my feelings. And then weep because I have gotten so much worse.

I'm horrible, I am a monster. I am shameful and horrid and everything nobody wants. And when I look at my body it makes me want to pull it apart, tear myself to shreds so no one has to look at me.

I can't stand myself, I can't stand my reflection.

When I look in the mirror I want to punch it until the shards of glass splinter and crack. Lodging into my skin.

And aren't I horrible for thinking about my feelings when I know how much worse Quackity has it?

What is wrong with me?

I hate that I can't even try to help Quackity because I'm too busy hating myself.

I slip off my bed and fall to the floor.

Anger stirs within me, broiling.

I clench my fists so tightly that my knuckles turn white. My chest is heaving with frustration. I want nothing more than to cut, but that is not quick enough. I need something now.

I need instant relief.

I bring an angry fist up to my head and bash it into my skull.

It hurts, and admittedly, it scares me. I'm afraid this will damage me.

But still it is not enough.

My fists collide with my legs, this time I beat my legs as hard as I can.

That pain is immediate and strong. It feels like burning and a strong ache in my legs, it makes me bend over and clench fistfuls of my hair and silently scream.

I grab something near, not enough.

I slam the object against my body but it doesn't give immediate results. I need to see the damage. I want to see that I'm damaging myself.

I want to bash my head in, to slice myself open and dissect myself until I am nothing but a small skin cell.

I want to slice me away and away, smaller and smaller until I am nothing and even then I'd still hate myself. Why am I so small now? Why am I just a small pathetic little cell when everyone else is an organism assorted of millions of just the small speck of what I am.

Why am I just me?

I hate myself so much and I hate cutting because everyone says it makes you feel good so why does it just hurt?? Why do I cut if I don't like it?? I'm an attention seeker. Please help me. I need help. But don't help me because I don't want help.

Give me your hand and pull me up, I can't stand being discarded to the ground. But turn away and leave me so I can decompose on this ground.

Embrace me, love me. But release me and hate me so that I can be alone.

My mind contradicts my heart and I cannot live when my body is at war with my mind.