Derek "Rekker" Sterling (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rage_rekker) wrote2021-10-05 12:29 pm
rage_rekker) wrote2021-10-05 12:29 pm
Entry tags:
Happiness I cannot feel
For prompt Ways to Say I Love You #70 "Don't hurt yourself again..."
Trigger warning: Self harm and suicidal ideation
Rekker found the coming and going of someone harsh to deal with. Going to visit someone for the day was as troubling as them walking away forever and it wasn't something he could control. He didn't want his meds and slammed the cabinet shut when the anger welled up. Everyone left and his paranoid mind told him the Swede would never comeback after he walked out the door. It didn't matter what he said, didn't matter than his brother had stopped by to pick him up so they could spend some time together. In the spiral of Rekker's mind none of that mattered. Only the absence mattered and it drove him crazy while he wandered the house. Crusher had retreated to her greenhouse because this wasn't the first time the lizard had seen her master break.
Tears never came when his paranoia and panic took hold. Maybe if they did it would give enough release to bring the spiral to a halt, but they didn't and the thoughts that Bjorn left him turned into self loathing. Now he wouldn't touch his meds. He didn't deserve them. He didn't deserve to feel better and the Swedish singer had left because he knew Rekker was worthless. How had he tricked himself into believing anyone would think more of him than he did of himself? It took effort not to smash things or get into his car and drive it off the road somewhere no one would find him until it was too late.
In the haze of self hatred at least he liked the car enough to avoid a sure fire way to end his life. He had wandered into the bedroom aimlessly and couldn't escape the heavy smell of the singer having sprayed the universe with whatever that eye burningly strong perfume was he soaked in. The lingering scent and the messed sheets caused a panic attack. He felt his limbs go cold and weak but he deserved this. This was what he got for staying alive, more people walking away, more anguish. He should die. He wanted to stop the panic, even hatred wanted a clear head. Half stumbling into the bathroom he turned on the water while staring into the mirror. He hated himself and punched the glass. It shattered, littering the bathroom with large shards of reflective glass. Rekker didn't even feel the cuts open on his knuckles with the numb feeling in his hands from the anxiety attack draining his mental energy.
Rekker sighed at the blank space on the wall and then at the pieces on the floor. He couldn't stop looking at the ragged edges. The drive to try to out pain the hurt in his heart with something physical raged inside, pushing him until he threw off his shirt. They all looked so sharp, so many bits that could offer some releif for the heartache and loss. Who cared anyway? No one was going to be here later. No one was going to care if his body was covered in wounds.
One stood out, long and v shaped, like the wedge of the guitars he so often played. That made it attractive and he picked it up with purpose. The way it cut into his calloused fingers felt good even if there wasn't much pain and no blood yet. His eye caught sight of the scratches on his bicep that the Swede left there and he wanted them gone, wanted the reminders gone. He wouldn't come back. The young singer had so much and Rekker saw no worth in anything, especially not his own person. He was broken and in the moment his mind focused on the worthless way his mind worked. Everyone left him because of his mind.
That first cut followed the deepest scratch on his arm, turning it from a mark of affection to one of hate. Blood ran down his arm and dripped on to the white floor. After the first the others came easier. Soon all those scratches from passion were deeper, bleeding marks of Rekker's own feelings. The loneliness and loathing was all he could feel. Blood smeared in the glass from him shifting around as he cut each scratch with precision. Metallic bits and red smears covered most of the open space between the sink and the cabinets where he had been pacing while the glass chewed into his skin. Who knew how long he'd been there. Time didn't matter, only the pain. His arm hurt so much from the stinging slices that he could almost ignore the hurt of abandonment. The relief felt good. The heart pain was worse than this and he deserved it. He deserved to bleed for being broken in the mind. He couldn't be happy in life, with anything, and he was the one who ruined everything around him. He was the wrecker of everything that got close to him. The self blame built up with the hurt.
Staring at the cuts, satisfied that each scratch was now deeper, Rekker turned toward the patio and outside. The hot tub was hell too so he headed the other way. He knew the sun was bad and he might burn but he didn't care. The quiet felt good. At least he wouldn't ruin the house out here. They could just spray it down with a hose. He wasn't going to need it or be here to use the inside anyway. No one was ever going to stay. He'd always be alone and he didn't want to be alone but he wasn't human enough; too fragile, too broken, too insane.
The words ate up his mind until he slumped against he wall of the house. Finally, the Brit dropped the shard of mirror, hand bleeding from holding it so tightly. When he folded his face into his hands it smudge blood onto his freckled face and reddened his already ginger hair with a darker red of his blood. He was breaking and he deserved it. Rekker convinced himself he deserved it because why else would everyone walk away. Why else would it be so hard to be happy? Everyone else was happy why didn't he know how to be? He felt like screaming and he looked for the shard of glass so he could slit something else, something more permanent.
He could see it on the ground below. It had fallen between the porch slats. Of course. He couldn't even kill himself the right way. Now he did scream curling up on himself like a scared kid, knees to chest and hugging them. His blue jeans turning angry red as blood soaked into them. He didn't care. Maybe if he sat here long enough the blood would seep out and he'd die? There was no band now to find him before it was too late. No one was going to come and look for him. This was what he deserved for thinking someone cared, that someone would stay. He'd exhausted himself or he might have went in for another piece of glass. Getting up to die felt futile and useless now. Everything was useless because he was worthless.
Trigger warning: Self harm and suicidal ideation
Rekker found the coming and going of someone harsh to deal with. Going to visit someone for the day was as troubling as them walking away forever and it wasn't something he could control. He didn't want his meds and slammed the cabinet shut when the anger welled up. Everyone left and his paranoid mind told him the Swede would never comeback after he walked out the door. It didn't matter what he said, didn't matter than his brother had stopped by to pick him up so they could spend some time together. In the spiral of Rekker's mind none of that mattered. Only the absence mattered and it drove him crazy while he wandered the house. Crusher had retreated to her greenhouse because this wasn't the first time the lizard had seen her master break.
Tears never came when his paranoia and panic took hold. Maybe if they did it would give enough release to bring the spiral to a halt, but they didn't and the thoughts that Bjorn left him turned into self loathing. Now he wouldn't touch his meds. He didn't deserve them. He didn't deserve to feel better and the Swedish singer had left because he knew Rekker was worthless. How had he tricked himself into believing anyone would think more of him than he did of himself? It took effort not to smash things or get into his car and drive it off the road somewhere no one would find him until it was too late.
In the haze of self hatred at least he liked the car enough to avoid a sure fire way to end his life. He had wandered into the bedroom aimlessly and couldn't escape the heavy smell of the singer having sprayed the universe with whatever that eye burningly strong perfume was he soaked in. The lingering scent and the messed sheets caused a panic attack. He felt his limbs go cold and weak but he deserved this. This was what he got for staying alive, more people walking away, more anguish. He should die. He wanted to stop the panic, even hatred wanted a clear head. Half stumbling into the bathroom he turned on the water while staring into the mirror. He hated himself and punched the glass. It shattered, littering the bathroom with large shards of reflective glass. Rekker didn't even feel the cuts open on his knuckles with the numb feeling in his hands from the anxiety attack draining his mental energy.
Rekker sighed at the blank space on the wall and then at the pieces on the floor. He couldn't stop looking at the ragged edges. The drive to try to out pain the hurt in his heart with something physical raged inside, pushing him until he threw off his shirt. They all looked so sharp, so many bits that could offer some releif for the heartache and loss. Who cared anyway? No one was going to be here later. No one was going to care if his body was covered in wounds.
One stood out, long and v shaped, like the wedge of the guitars he so often played. That made it attractive and he picked it up with purpose. The way it cut into his calloused fingers felt good even if there wasn't much pain and no blood yet. His eye caught sight of the scratches on his bicep that the Swede left there and he wanted them gone, wanted the reminders gone. He wouldn't come back. The young singer had so much and Rekker saw no worth in anything, especially not his own person. He was broken and in the moment his mind focused on the worthless way his mind worked. Everyone left him because of his mind.
That first cut followed the deepest scratch on his arm, turning it from a mark of affection to one of hate. Blood ran down his arm and dripped on to the white floor. After the first the others came easier. Soon all those scratches from passion were deeper, bleeding marks of Rekker's own feelings. The loneliness and loathing was all he could feel. Blood smeared in the glass from him shifting around as he cut each scratch with precision. Metallic bits and red smears covered most of the open space between the sink and the cabinets where he had been pacing while the glass chewed into his skin. Who knew how long he'd been there. Time didn't matter, only the pain. His arm hurt so much from the stinging slices that he could almost ignore the hurt of abandonment. The relief felt good. The heart pain was worse than this and he deserved it. He deserved to bleed for being broken in the mind. He couldn't be happy in life, with anything, and he was the one who ruined everything around him. He was the wrecker of everything that got close to him. The self blame built up with the hurt.
Staring at the cuts, satisfied that each scratch was now deeper, Rekker turned toward the patio and outside. The hot tub was hell too so he headed the other way. He knew the sun was bad and he might burn but he didn't care. The quiet felt good. At least he wouldn't ruin the house out here. They could just spray it down with a hose. He wasn't going to need it or be here to use the inside anyway. No one was ever going to stay. He'd always be alone and he didn't want to be alone but he wasn't human enough; too fragile, too broken, too insane.
The words ate up his mind until he slumped against he wall of the house. Finally, the Brit dropped the shard of mirror, hand bleeding from holding it so tightly. When he folded his face into his hands it smudge blood onto his freckled face and reddened his already ginger hair with a darker red of his blood. He was breaking and he deserved it. Rekker convinced himself he deserved it because why else would everyone walk away. Why else would it be so hard to be happy? Everyone else was happy why didn't he know how to be? He felt like screaming and he looked for the shard of glass so he could slit something else, something more permanent.
He could see it on the ground below. It had fallen between the porch slats. Of course. He couldn't even kill himself the right way. Now he did scream curling up on himself like a scared kid, knees to chest and hugging them. His blue jeans turning angry red as blood soaked into them. He didn't care. Maybe if he sat here long enough the blood would seep out and he'd die? There was no band now to find him before it was too late. No one was going to come and look for him. This was what he deserved for thinking someone cared, that someone would stay. He'd exhausted himself or he might have went in for another piece of glass. Getting up to die felt futile and useless now. Everything was useless because he was worthless.
no subject
Even being held it was hard to believe that the Swede was there, force himself to acknowledge that he had come back. After a time Rekker turns his head to stare at the Swede, still laying it on his knees where he has them all balled up against his chest. There's a lack of focus to the way he stares at something while wrestling with the internal demons. He had many of them; from fear of abandonment to fear of being used and everything in between.
The arm around him he can't ignore no matter what his mind is telling him. It leaves him leaning over until he's against Bjorn, or maybe even in his lap, curled into a fetal position. There's a lot more blood dried on his left side, an artifact of him cutting right handed and that arm being easy to slice. Shame starts flooding in with the other emotions and he tugs at his own hair to try and cover the slice marks, wondering briefly where his shirt was left.
Bjorn's question is still kicking around in his mind and he finally answers it. "It felt better."
The cutting and the pain felt better than the heartache and all the other emotions, distracted him and focused him from everything else. Hans was right to warn his brother but Rekker is glad he didn't listen. His hand finds whatever he can get ahold of; scarf, belt, whatever Bjorn might have that he can hold on to. The anchoring felt good, to feel like he could hold the Swede here and maybe he wouldn't leave.
no subject
"This---it makes me afraid. I don't know how to deal with this but----I love you."
It was all he could get out as he kissed along Rekker's jaw and then nuzzled into the man's neck. The stench of blood overpowered his nostrils and it made him feel a little sick but he knew he had to be strong for the man he was in love with. This was Rekker's illness causing him to do this. The man was powerless over it.
"Fuck. Babe I---I don't want you to die. Let me look after you because fuck! I can look after you no matter what my brother or anyone else says. I want to look after you."
The Swede was adamant in this as he gently stroked Rekker's shoulder.
no subject
"If I wanted to die, you would have found me cold and dead." The numbness and distance is in Rekker's voice. He's despairing over being unloved and unlovable even with Bjorn there holding him. He hissed out a breath from the burning sensation the singer's touch caused to all the cuts on his arms. Somehow the pain felt more real than the reason for the closeness. He laid there limply in the Swede's arms, unfocused and not wanting to deal with anything.
"Leave me alone." Rekker pulled away to lay on the porch. He wanted the singer to stay but internally had convinced himself that he wouldn't. Not only was he plagued by earlier thoughts but the upset, clear in Bjorn's voice, made it obvious to the Brit that he was too much for him to deal with and he would leave like all the others had.
no subject
Bjorn just wiped his face with the back of his hand, smudging his already ruined make-up, and frowning at the depressed man in front of him. Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to do? He wasn't even ready to deal with this crap and yet---he loved the man. Hans might be right. Maybe he wasn't ready for this.
"You're not dead. You're alive and I need you to stay alive because I fucking love you and so does your brother and all the band members. We fucking need your ginger ass in our lives whether you like it or not."
The Swede becoming angry and frustrated more out of fear and hurt than anything else. What the fuck was he supposed to do? The blond sniffing and then going to push on the man's back in encouragement because fuck it if he was going to leave Rekker to mope on the porch alone.
"Get up. Come on, babe----you don't need to be like this! I am not leaving you alone so get that in your thick ginger skull."
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Slowly he pushed himself up to sitting. His hair was a mess, needing to be brushed and he didn't do anything to get it out of his face.
"Leave me the fuck alone." Rekker's voice was agitated as he pushed both hands into the singer's chest and shoved him away. He might get violent at this rate, felt angry inside, though he rarely hurt people in these moods, himself that was another matter. "Don't you fucking listen bitch? Get the fuck away from me."
He's not even really looking at the Swede and then just lays back down. The arguing exhausting him. He felt like crying, not from pain but because he had no control, because he wasn't able to conform reality to his internal environment. One more failure. He was a failure and his mind was spiraling into darker thoughts.
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"Fuck off am I going anywhere! Get the fuck up off your sorry ass and realise what the fuck is going on!"
The singer shouting at the Brit, giving him another shove in the back with his hand, not wanting to hurt him because of his injuries but needed to slap him awake. He knew Rekker was in some sort of depressive state so had to try and do his best. Would it even work?
Fuck knew.
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"You bitch about the cuts and then fucking hit me?" Of course the blond singer hit him. He deserved it for being a waste. "Get the fuck away if you're going to hurt me too!"
The yelling didn't help and sent Rekker into a fetal position. He hated being yelled at, especially in a depressive spiral. His thoughts were dwelling on how he deserved this, deserved to hurt. "Go the fuck away you stupid bitch."
He didn't mean the words, not really, but old trauma was there of being assaulted and yelled at for depression and sadness. Then the tears came, crying so hard it caused him to shake. Rekker was in a full blown meltdown from all the drinking and refusing his medication for nearly a week. Mind in a bad place and his internal thoughts turning to injury and inflicting more hurt on himself to try and break out of his own thoughts.
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The Swede's yelling faltered and then calmed as he realised he didn't really know what the fuck he was doing. His brother might have been right but fuck him! He loved Rekker even though most would see him as some nutjob with mental illness. The singer hated seeing the man like this and could feel the hurt and fear threaten to cause him to run. But he couldn't. His legs wouldn't work.
"I---didn't want to hit you but you needed it. To wake up. I don't know what else to do."
Bjorn sighed and then crouched down onto his knees touching Rekker's leg, just staying with him, not going anywhere. Fuck, was this the Swede's own fault for the Brit not taking his medicine? He didn't want to think about that because then Bjorn really would leave if he started blaming himself for Rekker's meltdowns.
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Rekker wasn't calming down. All the yelling was escalating his emotional rollercoaster. If he didn't care at all his mood might not have tanked so hard but he was intensely attracted to the Swede. It terrified him and pulled up all the ways he constantly questioned his own worth.
"You sound like my family." Rekker snarled the words at the Swede. "Why don't you just keep fucking hitting me until it makes me feel better."
Rekker shoved Bjorn's hand off his leg. He's hurting, afraid, and doesn't want to be touched. The tears are coming hard now, causing his breath to hitch and giving him the shakes. He feels so exhausted he might not stay awake much longer. The emotions are too draining after the blood loss.