Try {Emerson Barrett}

5

Can we all take a moment to realise that the dying in a hot tub vid is following the general plot of this vid, and I published my book first so...

Also, this chapter is just one long Trigger warning so please if you are sensitive to such things, like self-harm and bulimia just skip to the end and I am going to write a summary so you generally don't miss anything important.

So I want to explore something new regarding the dreams. I want to make them first-person after all the dreams are an insight into Emerson's mind, so why wouldn't they be through his own eyes. I've just got this dream edited for now to see if it affects emotional impact, im trying to make it less narrative and this is one of the only ways I could think of

***

Once Emerson knew that everyone was asleep, including Codie who seemingly never slept, he climbed out of his bed and headed off to the bathroom. The pent up stress from retaining the desire to actually make the lines of hate appear on his skin had burned through his mind all night. After he had woken up from the nightmare, the thought burned through his brain just like it always had recently.

He was becoming worse, he didn't need a nightmare for him to feel the burning desire, anything and everything triggered the itch that could not be sated. His depression was seeping into his everyday life, the concept lyrics he wrote for possible new songs was developing a more dark meaning, for the time being, he was able to control that by creating a juxtaposing melody and use of major chords.

His art and philosophies were more centred on darkness and he had found himself pressing down on the paper to get even darker colours. His soul was darkening, with every cut his purity of his soul was leaking out and an incomprehensible darkness was replacing it.

The drummer stood in front of the mirror, blade in hand. He hadn't made the first cut yet, he was just looking at the chaos he had caused. He lifted his right hand, the hand with the blade and put it against his left arm.

He held the blade under his pointer finger and applied the pressure. Bubbles of red slowly appeared behind the path of the blade. The moment he lifted the blade, he watched- like always- as the blood trickled from his first cut of many.

The serenity filled him, despite the horrid nature of the act, a smooth calmness filled him when the blood bubbled under the new opening of his skin. After 30 seconds he began making the rest of the cuts. Some small, some long, some deep and some shallow.

A silent tear slid down Emerson's cheek, an anomaly to his usual reactions. Usually, he was numb about what he was doing and his overall actions yet his body had somehow created enough emotions for an emotional response. He knew it wasn't because of the pain of the cut, it was a deep cut but he had cut deeper than this many times before. He wiped the tear away before continuing.

About 40 cuts later, he was cleaning up his mess. There was some kind of poetic justice about him having to clean up his own blood. He would never have someone else to do so, and he wouldn't ever wish for someone else to see him in such a vulnerable situation, for the sake of his and their mentality.

Standing under the hot water was also adding to the justice side of 'poetic justice' the pain inflicted upon himself was added to under the sting of the high-pressure shower. Each cut made him feel like he was being shot in each and every location of a cut. Even old cuts from yesterday and the day before yesterday felt like he was being scratched over and over by some sick sadist wearing a glove made of iron nails.

By the end of his shower, his arms had become numb to the added pain yet when he bent over to put his clothes back on, the cuts tried to reopen and he winced and stood back up. The pain was paralysing and he couldn't imagine anything worse than the after pain, he might've been numb when making the cuts but he had not yet developed a way to become numb to the pain felt when he moved his arms.