Work Text:
Charlie sighed as he looked down at the knife in his hand, then into the mirror, then back at the knife.
A knife wasn't the most effective thing to cut himself with, he'd learned, but he was desperate.
He just needed control over something.
So, he worked in quick slashes, which seemed to do more damage than slowly working away at his skin like he was in a butcher's shop.
After a fair bit of effort, he began to see blood, and pain began to make itself apparent.
This was the relief he wanted. The control.
It was unhealthy, he knew, and the scars certainly didn't help with his self-image. He wished he didn't do this.
But it was like an addiction, and there was something sickly therapeutic to him about the wound care that followed. Of cleaning his blood out of the sink.
God, what is wrong with me?