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It all started with the hideous feeling of guilt hidden in the back of his mind, ready to come out as soon as silence fell in the apartment. He was alone now, in his own room, blinds closed and lights turned off, guaranteeing darkness to avoid himself from seeing his disgusting reflection in the mirror he hated so much. He looked down at himself, at the scars of his past, at the dark fur once matted with blood. He hadn't realised when he started picking at his skin, pinching it between his sharp claws untill a barely visible hue of red started showing. But he didn't stop. He ripped off the fur around his scars, letting his dark, tormented skin be seen. He liked the little stings of pain, the quiet hisses that left his lips each time he did this. He didn't stop. He didn't stop, until his sister came back home.
As soon as the door to their shared apartment opened, he snapped back to reality, getting into bed. All of this was left unspoken. It wasn't supposed to happen again, he stated to himself.
It was just once.
But when one of those days came back, he couldn't help but fall back into that twisted feeling of pleasured agony that the pain gave him.
It was meant to be a punishment, he excused. For being so weak, so fragile, so damn useless. He stared down at his knife's sharp blade, running his thumb over it. He thought of how selfish this could be, how sick, how twisted, how disgusting this made him feel, but for a second, the image of that weapon lightly grazing that perfectly clean wrist of his crossed his mind, and he couldn't help himself but think that it looked perfectly right. For all of the times he'd led his guard down, for all of the times he'd let the world crumble down in his hands, that knife had started to trace his way onto his skin, leaving his mark behind. Just the tiniest line of red could be seen, and he stared at it for a few eternal moments.
A soft, pained chuckle escaped his lips: what a waste of a lifeform. He was supposed to save the world, to keep his promises, to be a warrior, yet all he was is a fucking trainwreck, lying against the cold wall of his own bedroom as he slit his wrists in the middle of the night.
He allowed himself to bury that blade deeper once, twice, thrice, until blood started to spill and pool on his floor. He wasn't going to die, anyway. He couldn't. He could throw himself off a cliff, he could chop off his own limbs, bite his own skin: nothing could've killed him, if the strings of his fate were tightly tied. He was immortal, forever destined to drown in his own misery. Chaos, how worthless he felt. What would Maria think? What would his sister think? What would his boyfriend think? It had started to hurt. It hurt. He didn't know how much time had passed, but the only thought of his beloved's eyes narrowing in concern made him choke on his own breath. But it was ok. Nobody else would know. Only him, and the moon. The moon of the dark, starless sky that was his mind. The one that constantly blamed himself for it all. He hadn't realised when this became an habit. He didn't know when he had started to do this regularly. He had burnt his own fur once, marveling at the sick smell of fire just lightly brushing his skin. He had made himself unconscious, sick on purpose, just to take his mind off of the cruel reality he had built for himself. He had chugged down bottles and bottles of alcohol, the sweet liquid flowing in his system just hardly stopping himself from feeling so tired. But nothing could really save him.
Not even himself.