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007n7 ran a hand over the scars scattered across his legs. They weren't healing well. He was pretty sure he had an infection. He was three days clean, but the emotions he could no longer express through art- albeit a special type of art with his skin acting as the canvas, his sharpest pair of scissors the paintbrush, and himself the artist- were building up so terribly quickly. After being yelled at by Elliot for throwing last round, he wanted nothing more than to crack open a cold Bloxy Cola and get to work on deflowering his thighs. To let the pain coat his mind in a soft blanket of fuzz and static and let him forget about... everything, for at least a little bit.
He really couldn't cut, though. The fresh cuts he was currently sporting hurt like a bitch even when he wasn't wearing clothes, and any pants he wore rubbed against them in a mind-bogglingly painful way. 7n7 loved the way it felt when he was slicing and dicing his legs in the moment; but not so much the sensation of the aftermath. It really was his fault, he supposed, he kept double-swiping on already deep ass wound. It just burned so good. Scratched an itch in his brain that he was never able to reach in any other way. 007 realized just then that he'd been pacing back and forth while lost in thought like a middle-aged detective in an old black-and-white cartoon, haunted by a cold case he just couldn't crack. He smirked at the concept. Maybe next time his Dad was bugging him about what he was gonna do with his life, that'd be his answer.
The short-lived emotional high he'd managed to achieve immediately plummeted at the mention of his dad. He knew he wasn’t where he was now and would probably never be, but he still lived in fear of him every day. He hated his dad so much more than he ever thought he'd be able to hate another being. Every time 7 had tried putting trust in him and letting down the walls he instinctively built up around anyone his mind deemed unsafe, his pops would laugh his ass off and dismiss his issues completely. He had only ever seemed to care about 7n7 whenever he would hurt himself in public. Yelling, "Stop that, right fucking now." Pulling him aside and hissing out that nobody else could see him harming himself like that. "Obviously, it's, uhh... not good to hurt yerself at all. But just do it behind closed doors if ya really wanna. Don't want people gettin' the wrong idea, do we...?" he'd sputter out, gripping his wrist hard and glaring at him until he'd promise to never do it again.
Of course, though, he would. It was all just a cry for help, really. The beating his limbs against the walls until bruises were strewn all over his arms and legs, the smashing his head against desks until he blacked out, the tugging clumps of his hair out until the floor beside him was obscured by piles of the fine brown follicles greasy and unwashed because he could still barely bring himself to get out of bed in the morning. His dad yelled at him all the time for not showering, but he physically couldn't bring himself to do so. His fresh cuts stung underneath the hot water, yeah, but mostly because he hated his body. Hated his hourglass figure, hated his vagina, hated his ridiculously thick and disproportionate thighs, hated his wide ass hips, hated his way-too-big chest even if he only had A cups, hated his small hands, hated the way his voice sounded despite his attempts at voice training, hated that he was shorter than most cis guys even at 5'8, hated the lack of a bulge in his pants and of an adam's apple in his throat.
He could go on and on for hours listing the things he hated about his body.
The one thing 7 didn't hate about his appearance was his scars. He thought they added texture to his blank slate of a body. Almost looked badass. He couldn't seem to get enough of them. Before his forsakening, he’d loved the way people stared at him in public when they weren't covered. He’d always loved the pitying, concerned looks others gave him when he had fresh cuts on full display. He felt so proud of them, as awful as it probably sounded. Hours would speed by like seconds when he spent his time admiring his cuts. Most of all, though, he loved how the burning pain radiating off of his body in waves distracted him from the pain in his head. Call him Jason the way he was slashing at his wrists.
Best part was, nobody really cared. His peers watched him gain more and more scars every day and didn't do anything about it. It was the only passtime that really felt safe to him, despite the irony of that statement. With no friends or family to be concerned about him, even having lost c00lkidd and Noli, he was free to do whatever he pleased to his body. He was disgusting and awful and repulsive, but he was happy as a clam while he was hurting himself. He almost idolized himself while he was in that weird dream-like state. He felt like some divine, untouchable, universally adored being./p>
'I'm so fucked, man,' 007 thought to himself bleakly. Before the Spectre sentenced him to this hell, he was eager to kill himself; he knew he would never be fit to have a job or be able to provide for himself anyways. 'Likely will be too mentally unstable to even attend college, let alone be employed', he remembered the doctor scribbling down on his chart during some visit years and years ago. He was never cut out to make something of himself; he’d always just be a coward leeching off of others. Even now, he couldn’t help out his team and try to repay those who he’d wronged so terribly.
7n7 squeezed his eyes shut and tried to drown out the rushing stream of thoughts that were constantly flooding his mind. He could already tell this was gonna be a long ass night of tossing and turning. He knew he'd be up long after the birds started chirping and sunlight started bleeding through the window. The searing pain of his cuts would prevent him from falling asleep, but the thoughts were always louder when he didn't cut. He was never able to drift onto sleep without a nice, long cutting session. An endless cycle of suffering. It's all futile, it's all pointless!