kiss the boy | scömìche

chapter twelve

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm

Mitch wakes up to someone's lips on his and hands pinning his arms above his head. He immediately panics, flailing his legs and jerking his arms free. Mitch manages to throw the person off, getting off the bed and pressing his back against the wall, his arms covering his bare chest and his dark eyes glaring daggers at the person who was kissing him.

Nathan.

Nathan wears a smirk, his stormy gray eyes making Mitch lose his initial bravado. Mitch falters under his gaze, pushing himself more against the wall and clearly wanting to say something but too afraid to.

"What's the matter, Mitchie? Cat got your tongue?"

Tears brim in Mitch's eyes, but he blinks them away, refusing to cry in front of Nathan. He stoops and picks up his shirt, quickly throwing it over his head and storming out of the apartment.

As soon as he's out of Nathan's apartment, the tears start flowing, and soon he can barely see. Mitch rests against a wall, furiously wiping his tears away and trying to get himself together.

How did I even get to Nathan's apartment?

Why was he kissing me?

Why was my shirt off?

He shudders, wrapping his arms tighter around himself and continuing his walk back home.

Mitch freezes on his floor, his eyes focused on his apartment door. More importantly, the fact that it was wide open. Mitch curses internally, rushing inside and quickly doing a scan for stolen items.

The tears start flowing again as he realizes his notebook was stolen. Nothing else, just his notebook. It's like the robber knew that Mitch needed that to make a living and thought, Why not make his life even more stressful than it already is? Why not ruin his chances at becoming a full-time songwriter? Why not throw away all he's ever worked for? Why not?

Mitch collapses on the floor, his legs too tired to hold himself up. Slowly, he brings his knees to his chest and hugs them tightly, sobs shaking his small body. His fingers itch to grab a blade and drag it across his skin, to watch the blood trickle down down his arm and drip onto the floor, staining the white tile red. Mitch swallows through his tears, pushing those thoughts away.

No. It's been two years. I can't ruin that now.

Still Mitch rolls his sleeves up and stares at his arms, sobbing quietly as he traces the faded lines littering the skin.

Yes, the voice hisses at him, do it. Or are you too weak? Just do it.

Still sobbing, Mitch obeys, reaching deep in his drawers as he fumbles around for the familiar tiny silver death-machine. Finally, he wraps his fingers around it and pulls it out, the sharp edges nicking his fingers as he poises it over his arm.

One cut.

Two cuts.

Three cuts.

Four cuts.

Five cuts.

Mitch keeps going and going, his tears mixing with the blood as they drip onto the floor.

Seven cuts.

Eight cuts.

Mitch feels himself getting lightheaded, but he doesn't stop. Go on. Do it. Let the world be rid of your ugly face once and for all.

Nine cuts.

Ten cuts.

Eleven cuts.

Black dots dance before Mitch's eyes and his knees give out, causing him to fall on the floor.

He feels his consciousness slip away, and his hand flops to the side, the blade skidding a few inches before stopping and glinting innocently in the light.

"Mitch?"

Scott's voice surprises him, but Mitch is too weak to do anything. He totally slumps onto the ground, his head hitting the tile hard.

"Mitch, where are you?"

Mitch closes his eyes, his breathing ragged. Slowly, his consciousness slips away completely, and everything goes dark.

"Mitch?"