Numbers // weekman/weekeman

-Part 9-

- Trigger Warning: Self Harm. Please do not read this part if you are sensitive to this topic. -

-Ryan POV-

Blood.

It runs in beautiful crimson strips down my arms, flowing like warm rivers in between my fingers and sticking in the lines of my palm. I am shaking over my sink, watching the blood below meddle with the salty tears that sting and roll down my cheeks. I am immune to the sting. The sting is to me as white noise is to the world. It has become a part of me; something I have endured so many times that I have become numb to it.

However, that salty sting of tears on cheeks is not the same as the pain that comes from the morbid artwork of the lacerations down my arms. Again and again, that reflective silver blade digs into the soft, pale flesh on the underside of my forearms.

Without Dallon, I feel nothing. I don't feel the warm, fluttering fondness that plants itself in my stomach when I see or talk to him. I don't feel the urge to persevere onward and see what the future has to offer for me. I don't feel any of the overwhelming feelings of happiness that I do with him. I feel nothing.

I feel nothing except the familiar warmth of deep red blood and the ache of fresh slits.

I place the blade on the counter with shaking hands and examine my masterpiece. A plethora of reds dancing and falling inconsistently. The streams follow the curves of my arms. Between thick patches of ruby red, tiny blotches of pale skin gasp for breath out of the raging rivers.

I lean down, blood continuing to drip, and produce a scarlet stained towel that used to be white from under my sink. I press it to one of my arms until the streams calm down and then press it to the other arm. I drop the towel and lean against the wall, tilting my head up and closing my eyes.

- - -

sorry. normal parts will continue after this.