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It itched.
But he couldn't.
But it itched.
But he had promised that he wouldn't.
That didn't stop it from hurting. That didn't stop the way he could feel his arms practically begging him to cut into them again. But he had promised, so he didn't.
...he couldn't betray the one person he trusted like that.
Trust. A fickle thing.
He'd written about that one time.
“Trust is easy, trust comes fast”
That's what they say, to take a chance
“Trust takes time, trust never lasts”
Life shoots back, and the people tremble
Shaken, looks thrown, askance
“How do you keep on trusting?”
Life inquires, everything about her posture tired.
“We trust because it is our Fate,”
They say, backs straight, upright, wound tight.
“You shun strangers at your gate,”
She cries, tears falling down her face in golden streams
Her sadness boundless, bursting at its seams.
“They seemed suspicious, they came late,
They have not earned it.”
The people say, their faces set and hard and cold and unbreaking and unchanging and unshaking like unmoving stone.
Life sighs and turns away, their hypocrisies clear as Day.
As the people watch her go they say,
“We live to trust another day.”
It hurt.
He didn't trust.
He couldn't trust.
...not even Flare, with everything. Of course, that didn't stop him from wanting to.
No matter how much he longed to trust, he couldn't.
Trust always hurt in the end.
The itching was back. And it was stronger.
So strong.
He tried to ignore it.
The only thing that was constantly there was the itch. He tried to drown it out, tried to listen to the whispers for once.
“He's a demon.”
“Did you hear about… bet it was his fault.”
“...not safe when he's around.”
“...dangerous…”
“...evil. We should find an exorcist.”
“Do you think he's got some sort of mind control power? How else does he keep Flare around?”
“He looked at me, I think he's going to curse me or kill me- I'm too young to die!”
The usual.
But one thing stood out to him.
“I wish he was dead .”
He wished he was dead too.
He wished that he wasn't hated.
He wished the itch was gone.
He wished for a lot of things.
Nobody gets what they wish for.
He gave in. He pulled out the knife, in an alleyway in the middle of the night, the only light from the moon and a nearby lantern.
He was silent.
Quiet.
Someone passed by. He made no movements, made no sounds. He gave no sign he was there.
They left.
He was alone.
He raised the knife, and it glinted silver in the candlelight.
And he paused.
Was this right?
And then he continued.
Because the itch was there, omnipresent, clouding his judgement and his senses.
He pressed the blade to his bone, not even hissing in pain.
He was too numb.
He pressed harder.
Blood began to appear in red rivulets.
He pressed even harder. It wasn't enough.
He needed more.
The itch needed more, demanded more, craved more.
The knife sliced through him like he was butter.
He was staining himself with crimson.
But he couldn't care less.
The itch was dying.
He too, was dying.
Again, he cut.
Blood splattered the cobblestone beneath him.
It ran in sick, red lines throughout the cracks and divots.
He was crying.
Tears fell into the wounds and made them sting even more. The pain was welcomed into the symphony of agony, within him and on the outside too, his whole existence coalescing into a song of years spent hurt and neglected and broken, and his vision blurred.
The itch receeded.
But it was never truly gone.
It was always there.
It would always be there.
The inn’s owner would find blood and blue fabric behind her establishment the next morning.
The only thing she could think was that blue and red didn't mix.
Flare hugged him and it took all of his will not to freeze up in terror.
He wasn't ready.
He couldn't-
The touch-
It sent him into a panic.
The touch was too much, and the sensations of touch and the itch just fed off of each other until they blurred together and became one, and it wasn't just an itch, it was the Itch.
It was so bad bad bad- he forced himself out of the hug, running down towards the village, ignoring the confused protest of the other.
He couldn't couldn't couldn't- wrong wrong wrong bad bad wrong BAD-
He nearly sobbed in relief when he was forced roughly against a wall, slapped, thrown to the ground.
...it took the edge off of the Itch, and that was all that he wanted.
Jagged.
Piercing.
It stares into you.
It drags out everything.
All your failures.
Your guilt.
Your pain .
Everything.
All of it.
It's coming.
It knows what you fear.
It knows what you hold dear.
It will always be there.
Omnipresent.
An itch.
A tick.
Pressing on.
And on.
And on.
Closer, closer, closer-
Until it opens its jaws.
And it swallows you whole.
You scream in pain, terror,
You scream from a lot of things.
But mainly because of it.
That page is wrinkled and curling at the edges, like it was wet for some reason.
Have you ever hoped?
It's fleeting, isn't it?
It's broken, isn't it?
You're broken, aren't you?
“Do you need help?”
They ask.
“No,”
I say.
I am fine.
I have always been like this.
I have never hoped.
I have never dreamed.
I don't get to do those things.
After all, that's not what demons are for.
That page is both warped and stained an odd red.
Rigel, for once, was less of a mess.
Actually, he was rather happy.
So why?
Why was he crying?
Why were there tears?
Why?
How could one sentence ruin him like this?
Was it that bad?
Why was he hyperventilating in a dingy back-alley?
It hadn't hurt him.
He was shaking.
It hadn't affected him.
But why were his senses screaming to run? To flee? To hide away?
...why was the Itch stronger?
He picked at the scabs. They bled.
The Itch abated a bit, as if it was rewarding him for following non-verbal orders.
He would have cut.
But he promised.
He had promised .
He dug his phalanges into his arm, scratching thin red lines along its surface. They'd fade in a bit.
Superficial pain flowed through him.
He kept going.
He couldn't feel his arm anymore.
Good.
But not good enough.
The Itch lingered.
He couldn't escape it, even in his sleep.
Everything bled together like his blood and tears did, mixing into a pale, unnatural transparent purple.
He couldn't separate dreams from reality.
He was dull and unresponsive.
Cynical and brokenhearted.
He barely even spoke to anyone anymore.
It was just him and the Itch now.
...at least when he was asleep he wasn't so tired.
“Rigel, you're not okay,” Flare cried, shaking him by the shoulders. “You're- you're not-” He choked on his sobs. “Just… talk to me? Say something…? Please?” he begged.
“‘m fine,” Rigel replied, voice hoarse and weak from not being used. Flare shook his head, burying it in his hands. “D- don't lie, please, I'm just- I'm sorry-”
Rigel placed a hand on the other’s shoulder. “I'm sorry too.”
Flare gently tugged him closer. And then they hugged each other, one of them breaking apart inside, sobbing, and the other one already shattered.
The Itch, for once, wasn't there.
He spent more time with Flare after that. Mainly because the other seemed… well, not worried, surely?
Nobody would worry about a demon.
He hid the suicide notes.
Every.
Single.
One.
He tore them to shreds.
He watched them scatter in the wind.
And then he screamed into his hands, trying to muffle the sound as words and sentences flew askance.
‘I'm sorry it had to end lik-’
‘You don't deserve-’
‘I don't wan-’
‘ -‘m sorry’
‘crying’
‘broken’
‘bleeding’
...he was pretty sure he had memorized it, though.
‘It's been hard. Living, I mean. Were they ever mean to you? I hope not. You don't deserve to know what that's like.
Does it itch too? Is it always there? Or does it leave you alone?
You'll be fine without me.
The bush only ever needed one of us, anyways.
I don't want you to feel like I don't care about you. I do.
It just hurts too much to live any longer.
I don't like the crying.
I'm broken.
I'm bleeding, actually. Right now. While I write this. A few scrapes from a recent beating. Uh, let's see… there's a few cuts- one on my radius, ulna, three on my right palm, and there's ten bruises on my ribs. I think that's a new record.
If it gives you any comfort, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm hurting you like this. Or maybe you don't care?
Here's to hoping that the ‘afterlife’ isn't that terrible.
:)
-Rigel, ex-guardian of negativity’
And that was the note, painful and sincere.
...wasn't 27 the new record? Hmm.
The plans were panicky.
Hasty.
‘can't axyphyxiate self with hands
rope?
hanging self? where
not bush too small
building
where do you get rope?
stab self to death
have a knife
maybe read up on anatomy figure out fastest way to kill someone
^ no suspicious
accident?
gotta tell flare i’m sorry before i kill myself
he'll be sad
nobody else will be though
will he be sad? i don't want him to be sad
doesn't deserve that
maybe he won't care
that may end better’
He was hurting when he planned that.
He used to calm himself down by fastening his hands around his neck. The choking sensation was oddly calming. In a strange, depressing sense.
That trick never worked anymore.
It didn't stop it from itching.
...he had tried.
Once he started cutting and crying, cutting and crying, he couldn't stop. It was addicting.
It was the only respite he could get from his emotions.
He was falling back into his old habits- not sleeping, barely eating or healing or speaking, staying silent and cold and closed off and worrying the other.
But he didn't say anything.
He trusted the other to tell him when he was ready.
That was a mistake.
He trusted too easily.
Hope soars on little wings
Donning armour to get through tough things
Fate is small but has a deadly ring
But fragile without her bloody strings
Destiny is cold and warm and slow
But in the end where everyone must go
And what of Destiny?
What of Fate?
All I know is that
Time is never late
The Dark is warm and gentle, soft,
A cloak made of night
The Light blinds, burning bright
Drowning all in its harsh light
These are all the simple things
We take for granted
And so Truth rings
Their bell near
Their bell, crystal and clear
Do not forget the simple things
The simple things bound to us
Pulled tight by Fate’s crimson strings.