A short piece I wrote about Nigel. / TW Self-Harm \
Alex is fast asleep by the time Nigel pulls himself away from his desk, stacking his notebooks and piling them together in their place. He looks down at the sleeping form of Alex, watching him in a peaceful silence as the boy shifts on the bed, and he averts his gaze before he can accidentally wake him. He gets himself ready for bed in the silence.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he glances at Alex again, making sure he’s still asleep; he reaches into the space beneath his mattress, pulling a thinly folded tissue from the space between the mattress and the bed boards. There’s a blade in the folded tissue.
He stares down at the blade silently, a twisting, pulsating heat settling in his gut before he pulls his pants down his thighs. He glances over at Alex again, and he presses the blade into the skin of his thigh, blood bubbling to the surface from the cut as the sleeping boy mutters inaudibly into his pillow. He cuts once, twice, three times; the stress of the day bleeds out of him with each new cut, a pleasant sting marking it.
A pulsating, electric heat works its way upwards, spreading out through his veins as his thigh bleeds, painting him red. It’s a twisted type of pleasure as his thigh stings, blood covering the neat lines of scars already littering his thighs; his teeth sink into the tender flesh of his cheek as he drops his eyes from Alex, looking down at the bloodied mess.
Nigel reaches to the nightstand next to his bed, grabbing tissues and his bottle of water. He pours water across his thigh, biting into his tongue and tasting blood at the rising, pain-pleasure sting as water seeps into the cuts, he daps the tissue across the cuts. The cuts no longer bleeding, he repeats the process until his thigh is clean of blood.
He pulls his pants up, the material pleasantly scratching against the cuts, stinging lightly before he folds the blade into fresh tissues, hiding it beneath the mattress again. He holds the tissues in the palm of his hand, pouring water over them to dissolve it into a mess, discarding them in the bin next to his desk, knowing Alex won’t look there. He moves to his bed, laying down with a quiet hiss, the cuts pressed into the mattress. He rolls onto his back beneath the thin blanket covering him, pressing his fingers into the cuts through his pants, the sting settling into a dulling, pleasant ache as he does.
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