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There was only one person in the world you’d ever shown your wrists to, and not even just your wrists, your entire arms were covered in the telltale lines of slightly raised flesh. The first time you’d shown her was an accident, you’d gotten in a fight over something insignificant and wound up storming off. Then she’d caught up with you, grabbed you by the wrist. Of course you hissed in pain, lashed out, told her not to fucking touch you.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen her look as genuinely sorry as the way she looked right before grabbing your hand gently and rolling your sleeve up. Of course she’d only pushed it up high enough to see the bandage covering the fresh few you’d just recently made. The expression she made right then was one of worry, of concern, of love.
It didn’t take much convincing for you to take off your shirt, to let her see the marks, so many fucking marks. You’ll never forget the little smile she’d give you before telling you that it was okay. Everything was always okay when she laid with you and traced her fingers over the marks like she was connecting them into a bigger picture.
Sometimes she’d bring your wrists up to her mouth, press her lips to them, she’d whisper, “Pale for you.” and you’d say it back every time, even though you desperately wanted to reply something more along the lines of “Red for you.” you never did. It was scary to think of losing her because you wanted something that she didn’t. And you wouldn’t give up these moments for anything.
Then you got a little older. Things got harder. You were more violent, harder to control. It was exhausting for her to keep you in this quadrant and you knew it. God did you know it. You stopped showing her your wrists because you were hoping that she might ask to see them first. But she never did. She stopped gently rolling your sleeves up, stopped drawing pictures with your marks, stopped tracing them with her lips.
It was too much to handle. You started wearing a scarf, wrapping it tightly around your neck and hiding your face in it. You wanted her to ask about it, hoping she would pull it away. You got in fights with her, stormed off, purposefully walked away slower so she might catch the end of your scarf with her fingers and then it would come loose and fall away and she’d see what you’d done to yourself. She’d see the marks underneath it, feel bad she’d never asked about the sudden addition to your wardrobe, then she’d kiss the bruises better.
But she never did.
So you tried harder. The scarf wasn’t even for attention anymore. You no longer wanted to have to explain it to anyone. How could you tell them the truth? How could she ever look you in the eye again after realizing what you’d been trying to do? That you couldn’t even fucking do this one thing right.
Your name is Eridan Ampora and no one has ever seen all of your scars.