Happiness I cannot feel
Oct. 5th, 2021 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rage_rekkerFor 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.
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Date: 2021-10-05 06:19 pm (UTC)Once the taxi arrived Bjorn paid the driver then made his way to Rekker's house unlocking the door with the key given to him. He pushed the door ajar and then all the way open as he stood inside the large living space. Bjorn walked into the studio and was met with silence. Not there.
"Where are you, babe? You'd better not be jerking off in the bathroom because I'm going to find you."
A small giggle escaped the blond's lips at that idea as he continued his search for the Brit. He noticed the back door was open leading out into the garden so he decided to head out. It was then he turned and spotted red on the ground. Blood? Was that---
--then his eyes spotted Rekker sat under the porch. There was a red trail leading up to where the ginger was sat. Blood? Oh fuck, it was blood! The blond felt sick. Feint.
"Oh fuck! No! Fuck! Rekker!--- Skit! Herregud, har du skurit dig?"
The singer went pale and ran over to his lover, touching his arm and noticing the smear of blood on his hands, his face, his hair---oh god---his arms. Shit. Had he taken his meds? What had happened?
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