#The room is dark and bland, stretching out and away from you for what seems, to your eye, like forever. But he seems to glow in the darkness, looking almost alienly beautiful, caught in that momen...
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters but I do own the plot and quite a few of the thoughts.
Dedicated to: My English teacher, for teaching me to be proud of what I can write.
Cuts and Bruises
They decorate his pale skin like paint on blank canvas. Purple, some are turning yellowish, tinged with what, to any normal person would be light brown. For him it stands out like black, stark and menacing against his ashen flesh. At the moment there are seven, all decorating his shins and spread over his knees. He traces each slowly with an ebony painted nail, pausing every time he reaches one of the dark purple clusters of damaged cells. His legs are thin as it is, an eating disorder creeping back up on him, wasting away at his weight in the months before.
Across the back of the hand that traces the marks on his flesh a long cut runs. He did it weeks back on some wire at school but it refuses to heal, his body protesting against the lack of nutrients that it is receiving. He pauses as he notices a trickle of crimson blood stream down across his hand, then wipes it away, leaving red streaks on ivory tissue.
But the bruises on his legs and the cut across his hand aren't the only wounds his wasting body has to cope with. Across his back more purple patches peer out from cold, white wastes. Hand shaped, from the places his friends had hugged him or congratulated him, not realising that they too were leaving their dark mark on his flesh. Down his arm are dozens of shallow cuts and puncture marks - everlasting reminders of the days when life got too hard and he emerged himself in a strange and different kind of bliss. These only decorate the upper arm, not his forearm. His mother would worry if she knew, she would be frightened and even in deep depression he could never do that to her. He pauses as he traces the last of the bruises and looks up, catching the reflection of a pallid, sickly teenager in the bathroom mirror, sitting on the beige carpet. Then he stands and grabs a toothbrush from the holder on the side of the sink, praying to whatever god was up there that no one would ever see him like he was again.
The room is dark and bland, stretching out and away from you for what seems, to your eye, like forever. But he seems to glow in the darkness, looking almost alienly beautiful, caught in that moment in time, his ivory skin reflecting the little light that is morbidly floating around the room. You take in a shuddering breath as your eyes flit over his body, standing there on the cold floor in nothing but a pair of black boxers. He notices, but he doesn't look up - far too ashamed by what you now see to even meet your eyes.
You almost want to touch him, to trace the once buried bruises with your finger tip, run your hand across the scars and the puncture marks that litter his body like a spider's web. It makes you so sick and disgusted to see him like this, covered in cuts and darkening purple marks from the times he's hit the stage even gently. One is growing even now, across his chest were you chucked a football at him without warning him first. He'd laughed it off and chucked it back at you - but you'd failed to notice the pain in his eyes. It had taken so long, so very long for you to realise that something wasn't right. That the barely audible hisses of pain as he stretched every morning weren't just cramp. It didn't take you as long to realise his eating pattern and his sleeping pattern were going berserk but, and you hated yourself for being so slow - it was only when he fainted backstage at the last concert you played back home in Jersey that it suddenly clicked. It had been quick, nothing huge just two minutes of blackness on his part but enough to set the alarm bells in your head ringing like the home bell at high school. The rest of them hadn't seen him black out and he hadn't told them. He hadn't even realised anyone had seen until you confronted him that very same night about it. In the dark on the tour bus before the last stop off, just before you'd gone to bed with the snores of the other three slowly fading as, in hissed whispers you made him explain everything. How he hadn't been eating, why he couldn't sleep, why there were fresh cuts along his arms. The puncture marks though at least were still old and trying their best to heal over - he'd promise you all never to take drugs again and he'd kept his word there at least.
You shiver again as you stare sadly at what he's become. What this downright beautiful man is doing to himself. He swore he would never self harm again, you believed him - and that just makes it all the worse.
There is silence still, thick and heavy as you struggle to find words to break into the darkness with. You needn't have bothered for seconds later there is a hiccupping cough as a sob echoes from his lips. The tears that started running down his cheeks in silent streams when the silence first descended making themselves known at last. You close your eyes for a second and then step forward and wrap your arms around his shaking shoulders as he collapses into the lake of his tears, burying his head onto your shoulder until your shirt is wet with them. You murmur words of comfort to him, possibly even more scared and horrified by his sudden break down. But still he cries and seems to hold onto you for dear life, his nails digging into your arms.
Finally his tears subside and he raises his head, eyeliner harsh against his ashen skin and dark hair lank around his face. But as you look at him, scan those dying hazel eyes for any signs of life you can't help but forget. You can't help but forget everything he's done, every promise he's broken and it kills you to say that you forgive him. But the fact is that you do and what ever he does you could never look into those eyes and accuse him. Never again.