Anathema

thirty - bleeding lines

Most of that night was spent sitting on the edge of the bathtub in a panic. The cuts on his stomach weren't too deep, but they still bled a lot and stung like fire. What would his parents say when they found out? If they found out, he told himself. No one had to know but himself. He knew he'd never do it again. He hoped.

He pressed the washcloth against his stomach and bit his lip to keep from crying out, cringing in pain. What a stupid thing to do, he thought bitterly. It hadn't even proved anything. Just that he was as weak and easily manipulated as everyone thought he was. And he was terrified of pain, but now that he'd successfully ignored that fear for a brief moment, he was afraid that he'd do it again and again.

The washcloth didn't seem to be doing anything, so he gave up and washed it out in the sink. The pink and red swirls in the water made him sick. How was he going to hide this? The blood had already soaked through his shirt and he'd left a trail on the floor to the bathroom. He'd clean that up later. Right now, he needed to stop the bleeding and get himself taken care of.

There were gauze pads and bandages in the kitchen, and it was about midnight, so he hoped his parents were at least in their room. He stumbled to the hallway and cringed, tears blurring his vision as the cuts burned worse with every step. It took him almost a full minute to get down the stairs quietly, and he was sweaty and out of breath by the time he made it. The kitchen was dark, but he only dared to turn on the dim light above the sink, in case his parents came down. He dragged a stool over to the stove and climbed up to reach the cabinet above, pulling out the medicine box. Thankfully, there were a few gauze pads and some Neosporin, and a bandage he could wrap around his waist to keep the cuts clean.

He sat down on the stool, pulled off his shirt, and began to bandage himself up, barely able to see what he was doing through the tears. Everything hurt so bad. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let Nico get him so worked up that he...

He could barely bring himself to even acknowledge what he'd done. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to insist that it was an accident. But he'd meant each slash, each cut.

A gasping sob escaped his mouth, and he quickly buried his face in his shirt to muffle it. He knew they'd all ask. Why'd you do it? Why'd you cut yourself? He didn't even know. He couldn't easily tell anyone that his imaginary friend edged him on and practically dared him to. But that wasn't the whole reason, and he was afraid to think about it any longer.

Once the gauze pads were in place, he wrapped the bandage around his waist and safety-pinned it to make it stay. It seemed to bulge awkwardly, but his shirt was loose enough to hide it when he put it back on. Maybe he'd be okay for a couple days. Once they were scabbed over, he wouldn't need to bandage it, and he could be normal again.

He stole an energy drink from the fridge and slowly trekked back up the stairs to his room, where he turned on the light and closed the door. His exhausted eyes scanned the room drearily, noticing spots of blood on the carpet starting in the middle of the room and leading to the hall. He'd just blame it on a bloody nose and deal with it later.

Clancy's head snapped up as he came in, his eyes wide and absolutely terrified. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

Tyler just shrugged and slumped over at his desk, opening the soda can with a hiss.

"He'll be fine," Nico said. "It wasn't that bad anyway."

"Easy for you to say," Tyler grumbled, cringing with each breath he took. "You're not the one who has to deal with the fact that he just cut his stomach open."

"Oh, come on. Don't exaggerate. They're only little cuts."

"And when Mom finds out, she's going to kill me."