Baked With Love (Phan AU)

Chapter 1

Phil sat on his bed, tracing a shaking finger over four small marks on his forearm. His mind curiously blank, it was all he could do to remain upright as he stared down at his arm and took deep, shuddering breaths. There was a sheen, a misty quality to his vision and he thought that he ought to be crying, though for the first time in his seventeen years, he felt completely numb, save for the tingling, stinging pain in his wrist. He felt quite empty, almost not caring about the drops of red welling from the cuts that he had carved into his skin with the tiny blade from his old razor.

            They didn't exactly hurt, at least not like he has expected them to. He really didn't feel any different than he had before he has picked up the blade; he still felt heavy and tired, only now a little more sad. Sad that he had actually done this, sad that he had finally caved, sad that he cared so little about his body that he would inflict harm upon it. Though if harm was what it would take to make his body obey him, Phil would carve huge pieces out of himself, light himself on fire to be comfortable in his own skin. He had never been happy being himself, at least not as far as he could remember. His parents would say differently. They would gush about he was such a good teenager, never rebellious, never too loud or too troublesome, just steadfast Phil. He was always steadfast Phil, doing his school work before it was due, never coming home later than seven o'clock, and never, ever, being caught with a girl in his room. Phil grimaced and pressed a tissue to his arm, what would his parents say if they could see him now?

            They never would, though. Phil was careful. He locked doors and stayed under the speed limit and had never shared his secrets with anyone. He had never given anyone the chance to hurt him; no one except himself. The blood was still oozing out of his arm and Phil carefully placed the blade in the drawer of his bedside table under an old magazine before turning off the light above his bed. He laid back on his pillow, legs stretching beyond the end of his bed- being 6'2" had some disadvantages. Maybe I didn't really do it, he thought. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and my arm will be clean. He tried to convince himself that nothing had changed, that he was still the same person, that what he had done would have no effect on anything. But he couldn't fool himself. In his room full of pictures of former friends and mementos of a former life, Phil had to accept that the past Phil was gone.

            What's going to happen to me, he couldn't stop asking himself, am I going to be this unhappy, this alone, forever? Am I a self-harmer now? He shook his head and scolded himself, no- this was a one time thing. I'm fine. I don't self-harm. This won't happen again. I'm just not going to ever eat again. I'll be fine. Phil groaned loudly, suddenly his room seemed too bright and he lifted the sheet over his head to bring the sweet touch of blackness to his vision. It floated down, adhering to his face and torso and Phil couldn't help but think, this is what corpses feel. With that thought, he flung the sheet down and shifted uncomfortably until he was laying on his side.

Holding the tissue in place, Phil closed his eyes and tried not to think.