Every day he does this. Every single day. He wakes up, gets out of the futon, and enters the bathroom. He locks the door.
He drags himself to the mirror and forces his gaze the meet his reflection. A reflection he otherwise pretends to admire on a near-daily basis.
Now, he sends himself a malicious glare that conveys nothing but pure, unadulterated disdain.
He murmurs to himself all of the thoughts that plague him every single moment of every single day, the ones his mind amplifies and drowns him in every night.
The thoughts of utter self-revulsion. Reminding him of what he is, truly. Reminding him why he deserves to feel this way.
This morbid, inescapable despair, the repulsion he feels whenever he remembers he exists.
He tells himself how he deserves to hurt. How he needs to be punished.
How desperately he needs to expose his veins to the suffocating air encasing him, to let the blood rush out of his body as if it detested him like he detested himself. Ah, correction.
It should flood away from him so much faster if it held a fraction of the contempt he felt for himself.
He knows he wants to do it. He's done it before. He knows the feeling, sinking the cold, unfeeling shine into his skin, watching the ruby current vacating his body.
He knows the accursed, addictive pain that always accompanies it. He craves it so badly.
But he also knows the rush of relief, of emotion, of life, that overtakes him. Being able to finally breathe, regardless of the severity of his self-inflicted wounds.
Feeling as though he's made a step forward towards repentance.
He holds the metal vixen in his hand, his fingers no longer tremble, though he knows they want to.
He feels his heart rate rising with every centimeter the tempting weapon gets closer to his wrist. Oh, he could so easily just end things.
Slash down a few times, disregard the promised anguish in favour of being free of everything. Death's bosom would surely welcome him. He doesn't deserve to live, after all.
The world would celebrate his passing, Things would be so much better.
However, he looks to the glinting metal in his grip. Occasionally, he'll bring it closer to his skin, knowing what the end result of this ritual will be.
He continues to reprimand himself for anything and everything. After all, his very existence is a hindrance on everyone.
That's too easy. He's not afraid to die. He craves it the way the blade in his hold craves his blood. He could do it. Oh, it would be so easy.
Forcing himself to keep the sharp edge away from his skin, giving himself no choice but to be alive, without the proper punishment he so believes he deserves?
Punishment is not only meant to teach you to correct your ways. It tells you that past transgressions are negated, and the guilt that threatens to entomb you ebbs away.
What he deserves hurts so much more.
Oh, so easily, he could feel the pain and relief of being made to pay for his wrongs. So, so easily. He sits there for another handful of minutes, teasing the blade, hovering over his arm.
He could feel the pain he's always told he afflicts on everyone, by his mere existence. He could add to the myriad of interconnecting scars that will never fully fade.
But, dear God, does putting the blade down hurt so much more. Placing it back in its hiding place until he retrieves it again tomorrow.
All of the mental abuse he made himself go through, telling himself how he really feels about himself, torturing himself for being alive, never relenting, never holding back,
lashing out at himself with thoughts that bleed out only through hastily concealed tears...without the relief. Without the rush that tells him he was punished.
There is no punishment. Therefore, no forgiveness.
And that hurts so much more.