Work Text:
02:39
Cater furrowed his brows and bit his lip in frustration. There wasn’t enough blood. He had had a hard day. He needed more. More.
He was holding the blade he had unscrewed from a useless pencil sharpener tightly between his fingers. He sliced the same spot on his upper thigh about 6 times before it hurt too much to continue. He dragged the corner of the blade in a different direction, pressing as hard as he could.
Blood was arriving in lines and large spots. But that wasn’t enough. Cater wanted it to drip.
He cut on his other thigh in a lattice pattern. He couldn’t go too low down his leg. People weren’t allowed to see this part of him.
Finally some blood had started to flow down slowly in one small trail. He grinned. The sight filled him with euphoria. He cut some more, careful not to ruin the perfect view.
When the single line had dripped a bit too low for comfort, Cater grabbed a tissue and wiped it up. He swiftly wiped the blood off of both thighs and threw the tissue in the trash.
He lied back in his bed and sighed, thighs burning. He couldn’t help but think about how his scars would look if he ever quit (unlikely). He always cut in the same spots. If he stopped, they’d probably look less like lines crossing and more like clumps of discolored skin.
He scrolled through his phone until he eventually fell asleep.
He would have another “hard day” tomorrow and would cut his worries away. And then it’d happen the next day. And the next day. And every day until he died or someone found out and made him stop.
He never knew which was the better option.