#heavy thoughts

You’d drag the blade slow and hard as you tore your skin open; pushing the tip in to make it hurt. God, you enjoyed it, the way it took a second for the blood to well up, pooling at the wound before slipping down your leg into the carpet. The pain would come after, stinging as the skin around the exposed layers swelled, trying to close the wound. Your hands trembled as the blood-stained blade dragged, the razor going deeper than before. It was a constant competition, trying to go deeper than the time before. The skin beneath your knees was littered with sunken scars, some purple and raised. 

It was a constant itch that needed to be scratched. One that could only be satisfied by a blade.

It wasn’t enough, you needed more. You needed proof of your struggles. That it got so bad you had to mark it down like tallies every time your feelings got hurt. The cuts were long, almost wrapping around your thighs like tiger stripes; you’d grit your teeth, force yourself to keep going. That you deserved this pain, or how else would your suffering be shown? Start skipping school, let your grades drop, bomb your AP classes that you worked so hard for? And for what? All that to show your suffering, and maybe even then, you’ll be seen as going through puberty—a rebellious phase every teenage girl goes through. It took so long just to get medicated, and they don’t even fucking work. You would rather be depressed than just feel okay.

If they see my scars, it’ll be a sign of my suffering, my poster board. But it’s all they will ever see me for. Judged and ridiculed. The blade goes deeper as you sink into your thoughts, you were proving your points and disproving them. They would only ever see you as mentally ill. Maybe if you just killed yourself they would finally see you were suffering; under the weight of your own sins. 

It was your fault those rumors spread, that you talked ‘bad’ about a close friend behind your back, that you scream at your mom constantly. You want friends so badly but can’t seem to

keep them, that’s a you problem, isn’t it? The blade sinks deeper, a cry of pain escaping your lips. The razor drops, your hands shaking as you panic; it’s too deep, too big–it’s too much. 

The toilet paper does little to help, only serving as a hindrance as little bits stuck to the half-dry, clotted blood. All you could do was curse and peel them away, resorting to soaking a towel in water and wrapping it around your thighs afterwards. 

You stared at the glass door of your shower, tears slipping from your eyes as you wondered what was wrong with you. You were in AP classes at only 16, learning with seniors, on the track team, and on track to graduating near year. All that and you cut yourself. Why? You can’t seem to find out why, your mind goes blank, you panic. Why do you cut, why harm yourself so badly your hands are shaking and it hurts to stand? 

Questions seem to be plaguing your mind, all with no answers. This isn’t French where you have to identify the rules and see if it follows the exception–or math where there is only one answer. You cannot calculate this, you can’t translate it; you can’t do it. 

Maybe it would just be easier to kill yourself. You hardly take your pills anymore, surely there's enough to kill you. It wouldn’t be a pretty death. Who knows how you would be found, in a pile of your own vomit, foaming at the mouth, or throwing up blood and collapsing. None sound like a peaceful way to go out, then again, you have hardly had any peace. If you wanted peace, you could go out Hannah Baker style. Paint your nails blue, make tapes about your 13 reasons, leave the 11th blank. There is no Clay for you. Whip out a fresh, new blade and drag it down your forearm, watching as the blood mixes with the water; diluting your pain.

You could let your head tilt towards the door, letting your parents find your lifeless body. They’d probably take so long to come home by the time they find you, your skin will be waxy and grey, mimicking a vampire. Their eyes will meet your lifeless ones, dry and cloudy with tache noir having appeared. The blood on your forearms will have dried, leaving your mothers pristine blouse to remain that way as her hands meet your face; cradling you with such care you dreamt of before you died. Your father would stand behind her, watching silently as she pulled you out of the bathtub, the blood in your body settling to the undersides of your legs, staining them purple. 

They looked like the bruises kids would leave on you in grade-school, coming home crying as a kid; he would kiss the ‘boo boos’, and “daddy will beat up the bullies” would turn into him leaving as soon as shit hit the fan. How could he beat up a bully if the bully was himself? 

There was always the bridge by your house as well, hardly anyone came by nowadays. The water was as rough as your mind was; crashing into each other, endangering others. The rocks were hard and jagged, you could jump and hit your head on one. It would knock you unconscious, the water filling your lungs as your limp body thrashed in the waves. 

The water might drag you downstream, your body never found. 

Maybe you would ‘slip’ during heavy rainfall, the streets desolate; no one would hear your cries if you changed your mind. You’d gasp, limbs flailing as you tried to stay afloat, water seeping into your lungs. Thrown against the jagged rocks leaving ugly cuts and wounds on your back; not as ugly as the ones on your legs. 

The lack of oxygen would send you into a heart attack, your body limp as your organs failed and the rain grew heavier. Maybe it was washing away the blood of your sins, that you were a saint at heart, merely tainted. 

You found yourself drawn to the bridge, mumbling strings of curses as you struggled to sit up. A disgruntled cry left your lips as you removed the towel from your legs, pulling at the raw skin, breaking the clotted blood. It trailed down your leg as you tightly wrapped gauze around your thighs. 

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The downpour was a godsend, the bridge empty with no signs of life anywhere. Wet hair clung to your forehead, a chill running through your body. It made no move to ail the ache pain in your legs, amplifying it instead. The railing in front of you creaked as your arms pulled your bodyweight over it. You sat down on the edge, leaning your back against the railing as your legs dangled over the edge. It was hardly comfortable, the little ledge was small, one wrong move and you would plummet into the waters below. 

It was absurd, really. The way you often thought about dying, hardly ever acting on it. You could be doing the most mundane thing ever, and suddenly you want to grab a knife and slit your wrists. Maybe even jump out of the window, the glass scratching your face as you fell. Your body contorted in different ways as you hit the ground. Neck first? 

“I’m telling you, my instincts are right. Move the railgun an inch–” Two sets of foot steps appeared behind you, a raspy voice going on about his instincts. The smell of smoke filing the air, it threw you off, your body turning too fast. The railing creaked, leaning backwards, just out of your reach as you slid off the ledge. Your hands scraped against the hard concrete, just barely holding on. You gasped, trying to pull yourself upwards, your hand slid more, dragging against the rocks. 

You did this to yourself. You came out here, you sat on the edge when you weren’t supposed to, this was your fault. You were the one who wanted to die. Why not just let go? You would be doing the world a favor. 

You felt your hands slip, you didn’t try to hold on, letting go. Two hands appeared, grabbing your arm. You looked up, the hands belonging to a Blonde, a weirdo with a white pompadour standing next to him, a hint of concern on his face. There was a cigarette crunched between the blonde’s lips, as he hauled you over the railing, “ What kind of idiot sits on the edge like that, you tryin’ to kill yourself?” His voice was harsh, hardly comforting.

You tensed up, your eyes drifting shamefully to the ground. “N-no, I–” You stumbled over your words, settling on mumbling a “Thank you,” and practically running out of sight. They stared at each other for a second, wondering what the hell was wrong with you before walking back the way they came from.

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French being a double period was like heaven; you could be on your computer the entire time without the teacher being on the fence about it. You desperately needed it after yesterday, and you could sense a cold coming up. AP French wasn’t an easy class to get into, and remained in so you were grateful for the drop-outs leaving you to sit by the window alone. It didn’t really bother you that someone was sitting in front of you, it was the left or right. Your left had the window you often spent lectures staring out of, your right remained empty, until he showed up; the one who had the white hair from yesterday.

You two locked eyes as the teacher introduced him as the new student, recently moving from Texas. Out of all the empty seats, he just had to sit next to you, he didn’t even ask, he just sat down beside you. As the class went on, his eyes often drifted to your computer; you were working on learning Japanese? As was he, but you seemed to be doing more advanced work then he was at the moment–sure, it was because his time was being eaten working on a railgun, and arguing with Stanley about his supposed instinct. Regardless, it was AP French–the teacher just assigned work for the period, how could you already be done? After yesterday too, no doubt. His eyes swept over your figure, slouched in the chair, fingers lazily drifting over your keyboard as you worked, your hair was done up in a bun, the curls framing your face. You had make-up on, covering the deep eyebags he saw the night before. 

Contrary to your hair, your outfit was simple, an off the shoulder sweater and sweatpants. You seemed like a completely different person compared to last night, a hot mess. But here, you were all dolled up, looking like someone who would be the center of attention. Your appearance practically radiated ‘bimbo’, seems you were the opposite. A hermit, if you will. It was quite elegant the way you kept yourself done up while besting him. Again, his eyes drifted back to your computer, you had switched to another tab, writing about true crime..? Forget elegant, who the hell writes about true crime cases like they are a lawyer?

The human poodle was now staring at you, great. He was also a peeping tom, with the way you’ve been catching him staring at your computer for the last thirty minutes. Irritated, you cursed under your breath, “Ittai dōshite ningen no pūdoru ga watashi o mitsumete iru ndarou…” “Why the fuck is the human poodle staring at me..”

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Stanley knew xeno, he also knew the man never sung anyone’s praises, that man took PRIDE in being the smartest in the room. Then you came, and he was singing like a canary. Xeno was talking his ear off, going on about how much of an anomaly you are. “She’s truly elegant, Stan! Just in French today, she was working on Japanese lessons, and switched to writing about crime cases as if she was a lawyer. I couldn’t make out the entirety of it, but it was magnificent the detail put into it. If only that effort was put towards rocket science. We might actually make prog–” 

“You’re rambling again.” Stanley cut him off, lighting another cigarette. Xeno pauses before dismissing Stan, continuing on.

“You might want to hear this part, remember the girl you saved yesterday? That was her. I didn’t recognize her at first glance, she was quite done up for someone who experienced near death yesterday..” Stanley’s steps faltered, they both never brought her up after it had happened. Beforehand there was no point in it, now there was; somewhat. 

Because no normal person would go back to school the day after almost dying–let alone all dolled up, and in AP classes. No sane person, at the very least. You looked like death yesterday, legs trembling, head hung low and eye bags so deep they put Xeno’s to shame. You looked a mess, likely felt like one too; you just showed up to school the next morning with make-up on, and finished work with such efficiency Xeno was appalled.

It was clear you weren't sane. Especially not when they spotted you at the bridge again tonight, a mango loco in your hand. Stanley was carrying a telescope, Xeno trailing right beside him, rambling about constellations.

You were still in the same outfit from school, only you had no make-up. You were staring down at the water, watching the waves crash with a sickening fascination. One that could be compared to that of Xeno's during one of his rocket projects. Your eyes locked with Xeno's for a moment before they drifted to Stanley's, recognizing him from yesterday. 

An awkward silence fell between you three, Xeno being the first to break it, "Vraiment élégant, dis-moi comment tu trouves le temps de travailler sur deux langages avancés ?” 

Stanley let out an audible groan, he hated when Xeno spoke in French, even more to someone else. He gave up, walking ahead to set down the telescope. You raised your brows, looking at Xeno, judging by Stanley's reaction, he didn't know French. You shrugged, "Je demande du travail à l'avance. Je l'apprends moi-même et j'utilise le temps libre uniquement pour des choses.”

Xeno raised his brows, he didn't even think about that, "Dites-moi, à quoi d'autre votre temps libre est-il consommé ?” 

Your eyes went back to staring at the water, your voice flat as you responded. "Pourquoi est-ce que ça te concerne ? Ce que je fais de mon temps ne te regarde pas.”

You pushed yourself off the railing, turning your back to Xeno to walk back home when Stanley called out, “Wait.” That drew your attention, you turned over your shoulder, looking him up and down. “No sane person sits over the edge like that in a downpour that heavy. You don't peg me as the sane type.” You rolled your eyes,  echoing as you walked down the alley, “What sane person would be arguing about 'instincts’ in said downpour?” 

“Fair point, doesn’t answer my question.” 

“And the poodle calls me bold. Seems like you’re more befitting after assuming I’d answer that. Just take it as if I'm insane.” 

It eventually became a routine, you would go out to the bridge at sunset, watch the sky blend into nightfall. Likely with an energy drink in your hands, sometimes for ‘poodle’ who you’ve come to learn name is Xeno. He and Stanley would come down to the bridge after the sky had turned dark, looking at constellations. Stanley was only really there for companionship until you became a part of their routine. 

Over the course of the school year,  you bickered with Stanley, and argued with Xeno about math and made fun of him in Japanese knowing damn well he couldn’t understand. Stanley already hated when Xeno spoke in French, even more when you came along and started having full conversations in said language. He learned to hate the French language.

Lying came to you like a second skin, whenever you spent the night before cutting yourself; they never caught on. You knew how to force the trembling in your leg to stop, how to catch yourself before you started crying, as well as covering the bloody tissues from when you bleed through the gauze. 

Summer was when shit hit the fan. Sure, you could wear jeans and a bikini top–you left your arms clean for that reason, but you were always the odd one out everywhere. Stanley and Xeno would be in shorts and tanktops, while you were sweating wearing sweatpants or jeans. Dresses weren’t always an option because of Xeno’s experimenting, they would get ruined. It was the one thing you could never get the hang of. Unfortunately, they caught on. Stanley the ever so blunt one blurted it out mid-conversation at the beach. 

“It ain’t my business but how come you never wear shorts?” 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, I have seen you sweat in those jeans. You are going to faint like this.”

You paused, looking up from your drink, “I don’t really like telling people this but I hate showing my legs. Shorts make me feel so exposed. I get stares too.” The lie flew through you like butter, it was technically true, you hated your legs, but not for the reasons they think. 

You hate it for the scars, the reminders of your suffering. But oh, it feels so good when they sting, when you're messing around with Stanley and he throws you a little too hard–you live for the pain, it makes you feel something. The constant stinging in the back of your head always reminds you of your favorite comfort when all else fails. The sound of your skin ripping open, blood pooling up in spotty places before gathering and trailing down your leg. The clot breaking when you try and clean your bloody leg, bits of toilet paper breaking off and sticking to your cuts. The sharp pain of having to fish it out, having your nails done making it so much more painful. You loved it dearly. 

Most of your life was a lie to those two. It kept you safe, kept them safe. From knowing the horrors of what you do to your own body. It had driven everyone else off, why should they be any different? Stanley was the average Texan, with ridiculously good aim, and Xeno was the better, less infuriating version of Sheldon Cooper. Those two were opposites, yet always together, working so well. You should be able to fit into their little puzzle with time, right?

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It was November, with the added stress of graduating a year early, you found yourself enjoying your secret hobby less often than you would like. It had been a particular hard week, and you had been anticipating coming home to cut yourself. You could do it at school, but getting caught is the last thing you need right now. 

The blade split open your skin fast and deep, it was new, and from a different brand. More effective than the last one. The blood took longer to well up and slide down your leg, making it easier to clean up. You did drag after drag, each cut deeper than its predecessor. You slid the blade into your phonecase, standing up. Your legs wobbled as you grabbed onto the door handle for stability. Instinctively, you reached for your towel only to realize it was in your bedroom. 

Without a second thought, you opened the door only to be met by Stan and Xeno sitting on your bed chatting. You hadn’t invited them over, how’d they get in–Panic and horror were the sole thoughts plaguing your head right now. 

“Reader–Your parents let us in as they were leav–ing…” Xeno’s words trailed off as his gaze drifting downwards to your legs, cuts on your entire leg gushing blood onto your bedroom carpet as all three of you were frozen, the pair horrified. 

Xeno wasn’t one to be easily scared of blood and gore, he often injured himself during experiments. Why would anyone be scared of blood? He never quite understood why; you covered in it would explain why. Not many people have a great first time, in any context, really. Sex, drugs, maybe even finding out your best friend cuts herself.. That could definitely top bad first times.

He couldn’t describe how he felt–the pitt in his stomach was nauseating. The exposed layers of skin, the way your legs trembled, as if you couldn’t stand. She was horrified. The sheer terror in her eyes, tears replacing the laughter he saw just that morning. How–Why would she do that to yourself? 

The tears just wouldn’t stop; they fell faster when your legs gave out, knees hitting the carpet with a thump. Your blood soaked into the carpet, the fibers burning your exposed skin. It was itchy, irritating, and wouldn’t stop. It would feel so good to scratch, to dig your nails into your cuts and calm the itchiness. The blood would make it hard, dulling your nails and drying into the undersides of them, giving you an unpleasant taste as you bit into them when you felt anxious. 

It felt so good to relieve the itch you didn’t realise you were scratching until Stanley was pulling your hands away from your legs, blood staining the tips of your fingers. You whined, resisting against him. It still itched, it still burned. You couldn’t alleviate it any other way, you had to dig your nails into it, claw at your wounds, rip your already choppy skin and only then could it be consoled. 

“Let go! It itches, you asshole, just let me–” You fought Stanley’s grip, agitating him. You were practically reciting a dictionary with how many curse words you were spewing, English or not. His hands tightened the grasp he had on yours, pinning them to the doorframe. God, you were so tempted to just bite the asshole. 

You hadn’t quite grasped the severity of the situation, seeing as your only two thoughts were to bite Stanley for restraining your hands, and to claw at your skin to alleviate the itchiness that seemed to run so deep, you may as well scratch your bones. 

Although Stanley was making use of himself, restraining you; Xeno was watching the scene unfold with unease (understatement of the century) Stanley was feeling it himself, but you were a danger to yourself. Someone had to act, and it wasn’t him. The tears on your face that had dried were wet once again as you weakly pulled from Stanley. Crying and whining about needing to scratch your legs, that the carpet was unbearable. Xeno finally made a move, rummaging through your bathroom cabinets for gauze, as much as he could find, and he found more than enough. An entire basket full of rolls of gauze, hidden in the darkest corner of your cabinet. It was a medic’s wet dream in there, saline, antiseptic wipes, tweezers, and paper tape. 

He grabbed everything, “Stan–Carefully, grab her and put her on the bed. Tie her wrists if you have to. She is a danger to herself,--” He was swiftly cut off by your protests. Clearly you were delirious. Seriously, how weren’t you crying and writhing in pain? The depth of those cuts irks out Stanley of all people. 

“You freaks, if you tie me up–mhmp!” A hand was clamped over your mouth as Stanley swung his free arm under your knees, bringing you to the comfort of your bed. You were gently put down, your wrists now being bound by Xeno’s tie. The words on your tongue died as Xeno put your legs on his lap, the antiseptic wipes stung, your leg jerking up involuntarily. 

“Forgive me, it’ll hurt.” His voice was quiet, gentle even. Xeno was far from gentle, even to those he was close with. It surprised you. Dialing down, you relaxed your leg. Xeno was methodical, down to the t. He just had to clean every speck of blood on your legs, even where you were uninjured. Stanley spoke up, speaking for Xeno and him. 

“Alright, now that you aren’t clawing your skin off. Spill, why?” 

It just had to be the one question you were dreading. How much should you say, where would you even begin? ‘Yeah, I cut myself for fun sometimes. Oh ya, the first time we met, I tried to kill myself!’ Isn’t exactly the best way to start this conversation. 

“I dunno. I don’t even know why I do it.” Every possible instance where you cut yourself, seemed to appear. The satisfaction of the pain, watching your skin split open, the blood taking a second to appear–how could you even begin to explain that?

That taking meds makes you feel the okayest you've ever been. You can't fake being happy on meds—you can without them. You would rather cut yourself and feel everything tenfold or nothing at all. Not just feel some of it. 

You stared at Xeno's pale hands, cleaning meticulously while trying not to hurt you. Stanley who sat beside you, eyes locked onto your left thigh, where there was a cut so deep the blood wouldn't clot. It wouldn't stop, neither could you. The words spilled out before you could configure them.

“Sometimes I cut myself because I like the pain. There are just days where I just can't. I can't seem to want to do anything. I don't do anything out of want anymore, I do it out of necessity.” Xeno's hand stilled for a second, his eyes drifting to your face, the heavy eye bags, the pallor to your face that seemingly never went away. You put your head down, gaze locked onto his hands. You couldn't look him in the eye, it was too shameful.

“That day–when we first met. I almost fell off the bridge, where Stanley caught me, I was wishing he hadn't. I wanted his hand to slip. I wished I hadn't held on. Maybe then, Stanley wouldn't have caught me if I fell. Why did you have to save me? Why were you out there in that weather?”

It was straight silence from the two, Stanley's attention finally brought up from that particularly cut on my leg. He looked confused, about to speak when Xeno put a hand up, effectively shutting Stanley down.

“It was the logical thing to do. Stanley isn't entirely stoic, the man has a heart.” He paused, lifting your chin up to lock eyes with you.

“Afterall, I got to meet someone as elegant as you. I have yet to meet one person who bested me at academics, and here you are. The only person who broke that standard.” 

Tears pricked your eyes, trying to wipe them, only to realise your hands were still bound. Stanley untied them as Xeno continued. 

“I detest the unknown, but it seems you are the exception. Finishing work before I do in French class, while working on advanced Japanese–” 

“Xeno–” 

“Let me finish. I don't recoil at the sight of blood, or gore. But, seeing you like that, legs trembling, and clawing at your open wounds because of the carpet, truth be told; I was scared.” 

“You are a constant in my life. One I don't plan on getting rid of anytime, don't do it yourself.” 

His hands continued to work as he spoke, though there was a slight tremble as he reached that particular cut. It was deep, taking Xeno a few layers of gauze pads to just staunch the bleeding. It took even more to cover it and wrap it with gauze. You grimaced, the pressure not exactly pleasant. 

Then again, this entire situation isn't pleasant. If any of them said anything to anyone–You couldn't live through that again, the body checking from your parents, the medications, doctors, rumors, and the bullying. It was too much. That was a pit you didn't want to revisit. 

You rambled on, your words never a continuous train of thought. They'd have to put the pieces together if they really wanted to listen. It went from not taking medication, to an empty house, to the pressures of not having natural intellect like Xeno in mere minutes. It felt like hours, and it did turn into that. 

All you could feel was anger, looking back; your parents leaving constantly, friends dropping you, taking all AP classes—You made these choices. You could have stopped them. You didn't have to choose all AP classes, you didn't even really need math for Law! What's the hype about graduating early anyways? 

Your friends left you because you're such a loser and weren't able to read social ques, it was your fault you called your friend 'ugly' because you thought it was a joke. You could have stopped your entire friend group messaging you, saying you should look at your appearance before making fun of someone else's. Even when you apologized, they kept going. Why didn't you stop it? Why don't you think before you speak–

Why can't you do anything?

// Finally! The stage has been set, and I can focus my braincells on the main storyline. Dr. Stone ending had me so emotional, I had to write and I YANKED off my nails.