Work Text:
"This isn't gonna bring her back."
Two sat with their back layed against their bedroom wall, a numb sensation taking over their body. Everything hurt. Ever since Gaty had left, that's all they could feel. When they weren't overtaken by pain, they felt nothing. There was no point in joy, motivation, laughter, at least not when she wasn't there to trigger it.
They were tired. From everything, everyone, anyone. The smallest things would wear them down, leaving them to dust once the day ended— so why do anything?
Why eat? Why sleep? Why clean? Why should they? Of course, there's the obvious reasons, such as: "Two! If you don't eat, you'll starve!" "You need to clean! If not, that'd be unhygienic!" But the process of these activities drained them so much, to the point where the results were barely to notice. Why do something if there's no reward in it? What's the gain? Now, they didn't even have the motivation to get out of bed. They wanted to, they really did. But when their feet touched the ground, it was exhausting. Which is why they were on the floor against a wall.
They looked at their bedroom floor, the carpet buried beneath the tons of rubbish and filthy clothes scattered across their room. Of course, they had no idea how they got there. Four & X cared about them just enough to feed them, though, they never ate the food they put effort into creating— if Two wasn't going to clean up after themselves, then why the hell should they?
There were bags, food packets, clothes, stationary- ?
A pencil pot that was originally on their tv stand was knocked over, it's contents messily scattered across the floor. They didn't exactly remember seeing it fall over, but it was convenient, as they noticed a craft knife sat not too far from their foot. They looked down at the blade, then at their arm. They already had tons, if not hundreds of scars planted along their skin, some dating all the way back to 2010. Truthfully, they never were all that good at expressing their emotions. When they were sad, angry, scared, depressed, they didn't reach out to anyone.
They had never been one to make 'friends'. Obviously they had Eight at the time, but that was because no one else had the patience to deal with them. Eight knew how to listen, so Two spent most of their time next to them. But Eight took things seriously. If Eight knew about how Two felt, eventually everyone else would aswell. They'd all worry for them, look out for them, or walk on eggshells as to not upset them. That's not who Two wanted to be seen as.
So, they kept to themselves, and convinced themselves that what they were doing to themselves was okay.
They had hurt themselves many times, as they felt it was the only way to distract themselves or get their word out. Though, after over 10 years of hiding, they managed to stop. They had better coping mechanisms, a friend to talk to, things to keep them occupied. Sure, they relapsed occasionally, but they kept on track of it, and eventually, they achieved a clean streak of 3 years.
But then their greatest friend disappeared.
Their mental stability was ruined, leaving them practically bedridden, sulking in their own puddle of tears. They isolated themselves from everyone else, quit hosting, stopped eating or even talking, and inevitably, after a long night of self-doubt and blame, they caved in and brought a knife back to their skin. That night ruined everything, and now they were right back to where they started.
Two looked back down at the craft knife by their foot. It had a plastic cap sealed on the top, most likely to stop people from hurting themselves on accident. Not by intention, though. They paused for a second, before slowly reached their hand out, a green light emitting from their finger tips, and dragged the knife into arms reach with the little power they had left.
The landing was quiet. It was late, so most of the hotel must've been asleep by now. Two listened as they heard faint chatting from the rooftop. Most likely Book & Price- tag, or some other stupid alliance that had formed while they were still active.
But no one on their floor. No one to walk in. No one to hear them and talk about them in the morning. They reached their hand out and weakly picked up the blade, popping the cap off with their thumb and stretching their arm out, then softly pressed the blade against their wrist.
The moonlight projected into their bedroom from the window behind them, the light reflecting off of the blade and causing the silver to shine. Two sighed, before pressing the knife down and slashing the blade across their wrist.
They were immediately met with a sharp sting throbbing from the new gash in their arm, as a white line parted through their skin, dark red emerging from the edges. The wound filled up with blood, eventually trickling down from their forearm and dropping onto the floor below them. It stung, yes, but it felt small in their eyes. Therefor, they did it again.
Two cuts.
Three cuts.
Five cuts.
Seven cuts.
Quickly, they lost count, as their train of thought dimmed down until it felt as if they weren't thinking at all. Their blood had met with the carpet beneath them, several times, though they didn't think. They didn't want to think. They just wanted everything to end. Blood had been smeared against their fingertips, staining anything they touched, as more and more cuts were slashed into their arm. The stinging increased, and the pain got close to becoming unbearable, when—
They thought they heard someone?
Their heart dropped down to their stomach as panic immediately built up in their mind. They dropped the knife, causing it to clink on the floor beside them, and attempted to hide their butchered arm behind their back, shakily turning their head around to try and find the source of the noise.
"Is– is anyone there.?" Two whispered, trying to ignore the blood actively trickling down their arm.
Silence.
"I thought.. I thought I heard—.." Two grabbed onto the window sill behind them and pulled themselves off the ground, leaning against the wall for support. They looked ahead of themselves at the white board Fanny and Ice-cube had left. There was gibberish scribbled all over it, empty drawings with no meaning displayed as if it was important. An eery feeling crept down their spine.
"I thought I heard someone.." They slowly took a few steps before them, their feet shaking and begging to give out underneath them.
Nobody was there.
Two sighed and fell to their side, collapsing into the bed beside them. The room was quiet. They hated quiet. They looked down at their arm, now soaked in blood and covered in gashes they had caused themselves. 'I should bandage that up..' Two thought to themselves as their fingers curled into the palm of their hand.
They knew they wouldn't. And they really didn't care.