He had been awake for five days. There are so many things that can be accomplished in five days. A short vacation. A standard work week. You can swap an engine. Binge watch a show.
In the five days Alexander had been awake for, he refused to speak with John.
Maria had been in and out of the room every day. All of Alex's family had visited. Yet, each time John requested to visit, he was told that the patient would not permit it today.
John didn't understand it. Was Alexander punishing him? What did he do to inflict this? Perhaps it had finally been discovered. The reality, the truth, the fact that John was utterly disgusting. That must be what it was. He was a freak, an undesirable, and he was being rejected for it. He complained too much, and needed help with everything. Alexander was mad about the suicide attempt, mad about John being such an idiot.
The familiar tingle grew in his fingers, chilling his blood. He fidgeted a bit, glancing around the room, thinking. He used to keep the object tucked behind his phone case, in plain site for all to see.
He had lost that a long time ago, the hospital taking it from him. He didn't know where to get a new razor.
Alexander wouldn't have been stupid enough to bring him anything to sharpen the pencils with. He knew that to be a fact. Perhaps though, Alexander had one of his own. He was always writing. Surely he had a sharpener, something with a blade.
He wasn't staying in his room either. Alexander had been moved to a different location in the hospital temporarily. All his things would be in there, hopefully even a pencil sharpener. It wouldn't have been his first choice, but it worked none the less.
The nurse's eyes drifted away from him, no one stopping to question his motives. He was invisible to all, a small excuse of a boy, a pathetic thing to be ignored.
Alexander's room smelt more like a hospital than it had prior. In his absence, it had seemed to dull. There was no life to live. There was no reason for the room to stick out as anything other than a room.
John searched through drawers like a drug addict. He needed to find his fix, no matter how far he had to dig.
He had once heard a story about a heroin addict. He remembered being told she was on a plane to rehab when she snuck a syringe into the bathroom and used toilet water mixed with heroin.
He wondered what sort of crazy thing he would do to get his fix. What sort of means would he go through to achieve his desired end results? Apparently he would steal, and from the one person who used to care about him, but what else would he be reduced to?
It didn't take much to unscrew the small pencil sharpener. The blade fell in his hand, tiny, silver, shining at him and waiting to be used.
He sat himself on the bed, pulling up his shirt. His skin was stained with old scars, rows of them lining his flat stomach. It looked sickening to him, and also beautiful. Some were just little lines, others were carvings which healed the best they could.
The words were still decipherable and as he read them, he remembered each time someone had taunted him with them. Faggot. Failure. Nasty. Gross. It was quite the collection.
He took the blade across his stomach, breathing in sharply. It was dull, but it still punctured flesh. It didn't bleed as much as desired, and it was so tiny.
He ran over the same spot countless times, hoping more blood would begin to spill. It was to no avail.
His hands moved deftly, and his heart stood still. He felt so numb, the sting of the razor being all he could feel. His stomach squirmed, trying to move away from the inflictions. However, his hands and brain were stronger than his stomach, commanding that he continue.
It burnt, and it always did, but perhaps when you become so cold, it's better to burn anyway.
"Why John?" Alexander questioned, standing in the doorway. He placed himself on the bed next to John, breathing heavily.
John's hands were shaking and he refused to make eye contact. There was no use hiding it, Alexander had already seen. He just wished that he could disappear.
"Don't hate me," he cried out, hiding his face in his hands.
Alexander enveloped him in a hug, allowing John to cry. His body ached with sobs, shaking in Alex's arms, so overtaken with sobs that he fought to breath.
"What does this accomplish?"
John remained silent, unsure what kind of response was wanted from him. Alexander repeated the question, and John could sense his growing animosity.
"I deserve it," he mumbled, staring blankly at the ground. He couldn't look in Alexander's eyes, couldn't manage to look past the shame and guilt.
"I upset you, so I deserve to be hurt. You were mad at me."
There was more to the situation than just that. The cuts weren't just because Alexander was mad at him. They were formed from a lifetime of not being good enough; years, of self hate. They were the accumulation of abuse, both physical and mental. The reason for the fresh cuts may be because Alexander was mad, but all the scars were there because for some reason or another, John believed he deserved each and every one of them.
"You didn't upset me one bit, babe. What made you think you did?" He stroked John's hair, holding him tightly with his free hand.
"You wouldn't let me talk to you. You'd only talk to Maria. Who is she to you? Why won't you tell me?" He began to cry harder, so confused by all his feelings. He couldn't bear it.
Alexander rubbed his arm, trying to convince him to calm down. "It's okay. I wasn't mad. I promise. I just didn't figure you could handle seeing me in the state I was in, okay?"
"Okay," John mumbled in response.
"As for Maria, we'll talk about it tomorrow, I promise. I'll tell you everything. Try to go to sleep for me now though. Please. I promise I won't leave you. I'll hold you until you wake up."
He placed a gentle kiss on John's brow, and he began to drift to sleep.
John still felt the empty pang in his heart, the desire to hurt himself more. He was too overwhelmed by exhaustion to do much more. He had hardly slept since Alexander had his episode. He forced his body to relax and he ignored the pang in his heart, sleeping for the first time in many days.
YOU ARE READING
Dead or Destitute (Lams)
Fanfiction(Lams.) This had been the third time. His third time downing pills, his third time trying to meet death. If only he had succeeded. - It had been months since he had last left the hospital. He was bored. He was afraid that he was simply going to die...
