Yeah
Another depressing phan one-shot
Mhm
Don't kill me
Bye
#########
There it is again.
The itching.
Itch, itch, itch.
Nag, nag, nag.
But I can't scratch it.
I can try.
But nothing happens.
I need a tool.
A shiny, cold, tool.
Reflecting my pain and sorrow.
Reflecting my self hatred.
I need it.
Itch, itch, itch.
Where is it?
My hands fumble through the bathroom cabinets, my body trained like a bloodhound to sniff out the shining metal shards.
Itch, itch, itch.
Slamming shut the cabinet doors, I hear things fall out of place with my sudden rampage through the apartment. I don't care. I need it.
Itch, itch, itch.
Not under my pillow. Not at my bedside. Not in my dresser.
Itch, itch, itch.
I burst into Phil's room. Has he hidden them here? Not under his bed. Not in his closet. In his dresser?
Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch.
I toss out his flannels and his weird Chewbaka t-shirts, flinging mismatched socks over my head. Finally, my eyes rest on a red-stained Baggie.
Itch. Itch. Itch.
I rip open the baggie with my fingernails, spilling its contents onto Phil's messy bedsheets. There are so many sizes and shapes to choose from.
itch.
itch.
itch.
I fumble with an old friend, spinning it with my fingertips. I rest it on my skin, a half-smile drifting on my colorless lips.
Itch. Itch. Itch.
As I stare at my predicament, my body hunched over a blade that rests on my arm, collapsed on my best friend's bed, breathing heavily, I pause.
I pause because of a memory.
"You're a fighter," he had said to me, a whisper in my ear as I sobbed into his shoulder, "You're MY fighter."
The words dance in my mind. I'm not sure what to make of them.
A tear falls from my eye when I stare down at the Baggie I had torn open so carelessly. I stare at it until I notice the smeared sharpie scrawled on the baggie. Curious and desperate, I piece the baggie back together into a torn surface, struggling to read Phil's handwriting.
"A fighter fights" is what the baggie says.
Underneath it, Phil has written only one word.
"Fight."
My tears cease. I clutch the blade and I stare at the word.
Fight.
My itching is subsiding, overpowered by the word.
Itch? No. Fight.
Fight, fight, fight.
Just then, Phil bursts through the apartment door.
"Dan?" He calls, "Dan? Where are you? Dan?"
He finds me on his bed, fighting. I bite my lip so I don't scream. The itching is overwhelming but my will to fight has grown over it.
"Dan..." Phil rushes to me, snatching the razor from my trembling hands and throwing it across the room. My tears soak into his shirt as he embraces me.
Fight, fight, fight.
"Dan," Phil murmurs, "You fought..."
"I-" my words are choked and broken, "I'm your fighter, Phil."
Phil nuzzles into me even closer, stroking my hair.
"You are," he tells me, "You always will be."
