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Blue light shone from a monitor onto pale unmarked skin. The clacking of keys filled the room alongside the occasional burst of thunder and lightning.
He was happy. Very happy. Even without a few days' sleep, he was happy. Because he was going to die.
This was absolutely nothing new. Constant streams of pleasurable horrific emotions. Urges came and went, or decided to hang around. He was not happy nor was he sad. He was depressed and manic. Delusional, some would say. Indulging himself in his manic pleasures brought him great relief. Sick relief. He was sick but oh it was so wonderful. He clung to it and it clung to him. Depending on each other.
His eyes travelled from the screen towards a sketchbook on his bed.
He did every so often allow himself to draw. Allow his vibrant ideas to take form on a piece of paper. Once, they had been glorious. Gorgeous backgrounds, detail upon detail upon detail. Now- they described something only he could comprehend. A scattering of letters, shapes, faces. Coming together into a crude and violent piece. Guilt and shame drew him to art. Forcing himself to make drawing after drawing only to tear himself apart afterwards. Hatred engulfed him. A grotesque emotion, and he chose to allow it to fuel his urges. elaborate designs in the form of scars began littering his skin. horrific body art only to be admired by those who understood it.
A sharpener. A pencil sharpener. His eyes shot to the silver object. Intrigued, his urges seated themselves once more on his limbs. Addiction, it was. Addiction. The craving for relief. For joy that it never brought him. So overwhelming he had discarded rationality years ago.
He stood, trudging across the carpet and retrieved a sharpener. Now he was met with only one obstacle. He could not unscrew it. His fingernails were too short, he did not have any coins or screwdrivers. He was helpless. rage corroded his thoughts. To even get to this point in the first place and then to be forced to deny himself his well-deserved pleasure?
He moved across the room towards his door, pocketing the sharpener. He would take it upon himself, then. To go through with his task and fulfill his needs. He tip-toed across the hallway and down the stairs. Flinching at every creak the floor made. Making his way down the set of stairs and into the pitch-black living room he stopped. Searching for something.
He spotted something. The dark lumpy form of his fathers coat, making his way across the room to the wine red couch, he unzipped one of the pockets. Groaning in dissatisfaction at finding it empty, he moved on. Roaming into the kitchen to search further.
A flick of a light switch was heard behind him. Turning around in horror he saw his father, Zhongli, standing there. Glaring down at him.
"Xiao. Why are you still awake for Christ's sake? It's already eleven, you have school tomorrow."
Xiao stammered a response. "I just needed- I needed a- Mhh-" He gave up. Lowering his head in shame.
"Go to bed. Now. We'll talk about this in the morning." Zhongli turned off the light and headed back into the living room.
Xiao flew through the kitchen as soon as he was out of sight, and finally saw a small glint of copper lying on the counter. A penny. Exactly what he needed.
Dashing out of the kitchen, through the living room, and back to his bedroom he slammed the door shut. Now seated on his bed, he removed the sharpener from his hoodie pocket.
The overwhelming feeling of shame engulfed him. He was absolutely disgusting. What normal person would go to such lengths to perform a horrible and grotesque action? And even further to be caught in the act? Even a tiny thing like that destroyed him. He didn't want that. This was all to make him feel better. He wanted to feel better Trying to claw his way out of the hole he had dug for himself, while in his spare time digging the hole even deeper. It made no sense, but to him- it was fine. Everything was fine. He lived his life in his own world, in his own version of happiness.
The shame vanished, blood and pain having taken its place. Suffering in exchange for art. A dancing, swirling, painfully red pattern overtook his sorrows. He laid on his bed, relishing in the physical feelings that had replaced his mental ones. The old feeling of giddy misery was welcoming, it was relief, and it was lovely. And horribly sick. Minutes dragged by, turning into hours.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Someone walking towards his room. Hu-Tao. His sister. Who was definitely not supposed to be awake. Had she had a nightmare? Why hadn't she gone to Zhongli? Why now of all times?! He dove for his bathroom, locking the door, wincing as the sudden harsh movements ripped his neglected wounds open further.
Hu-Tao came into the room. Stopping near the doorway when she realized he was nowhere in sight. Tears clouding her vision until she wiped them gingerly. Then, her eyes fell upon the blood that coated parts of his bed, and then the blade. She picked it up, turning it over as if trying to convince herself it was not his blood and DNA that coated it. Tears clouded her vision once more as she ran out of the room to her father.
Xiao heard their fathers door burst open as Hu-Tao ran in to hurriedly awaken and alert him.
He cursed, and in a desperate delusional attempt to avoid the terrifying confrontation he ran towards the sharpener and unscrewed the second blade. Shoving it in his mouth he cried out in pain and gagged on the flow of blood that poured into his mouth. He spat it out, coughing and choking. He gathered the blade once more, and at once hid in the bathroom, utilizing the handy lock on the door.
Zhongli rushed into the room, searching desperately for his son. Banging on the bathroom door, he asked Hu-Tao to run outside to check the street and backyard.
Slamming into the door with his shoulder, trying to break the knob, Xiao curled up into the corner farthest from the door. Forcing the blade into his mouth he tried his best to leave fresh wounds in as many places as possible. He wanted it all to be over. Panic had overtaken him the second Hu-Tao stepped into the room and he wanted nothing other than to die.
He gagged on the blood filling his mouth, forcing him to choke and spit out the blade. Zhongli heard it and forced all of his strength up against the door, breaking the lock. He burst into the bathroom finding his son on the floor shirtless, with swirling patterns he had carved into his arms, fresh with a horrendous beauty.
Xiao choked once more as blood spilled out of his lips staining his face red. Staring at Zhongli with horror-ridden features and exhausted eyes.
An ambulance had been called for the boy. Leaving no time for Zhongli to pound his son with questions in a terror-ridden tongue. Crying out and gagging on his own blood once more, the light went out in his eyes as he closed them. Staining not only his skin but the blanket that was placed over him on the stretcher.
Days later, he remained in the hospital- still unable to speak without it causing him severe pain, but with his father. The horrors of masked nurses had become real, but his father was there. His journey was not over nor was it bright but he chose to live in the moment before he ended his life. He chose to enjoy as much as he could before his end. Happy, but not safe. A liar can only achieve as much in life as he chooses.