Verecundiam

Rain fell from outside the window, soft patterings against thin glass which existed only to accomplish nothing. Genesis supposed he and the rain were similar enough, in that sense.

He watched each drop of rain as it slid down the window pane, beading and bunching together before it escaped from his sight.

If only that water were red coming from his own veins and the glass were replaced by skin.

A twinge of shame flushed through him at the thought, the knowledge of how vastly messed up he was.

Just once more, how much harm could it do? Gods, listen to him, he sounded like an addict.

Genesis paused, catching his lip upon his teeth as a heavy sigh forced its way from his lungs. He was an addict to self-harm, even if he no longer practised it, the want was still there. It was always there.

He no longer actively hurt himself, but anytime he did manage to slice his skin open in some mundane activity, he couldn’t help but stare.

The shade of blood never ceased to amaze him; to entrap him.

Everyone was wrong, so wrong about him.

Genesis had never split his skin to ask for something like help, he didn’t do it to ‘feel pain’ or because he felt it was the only way out of a bad situation. No, he slit the skin because it was freedom.

It was power.

There is nothing more beautiful, more enrapturing than to watch your very life force slide down skin.

Getting discovered was a mistake, a monumental mishap. He had done so well to hide the marks. To keep them in places easily coverable by cloth, unconventional areas that would still bleed.

Still, he supposed it didn’t matter. He was discovered, forced to expose the marks that he had slaved so hard to hide while feeding lies about why he did it.

People only took what they wanted to hear.

No, he did not cut to mask pain or make ‘voices’ go away. He did it because it gave him a sense of power over himself in a way he never had before; he did it because it was beautiful and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t quite get paint to make the same glistening vermillion that blood had.

And no, he didn’t wear clothes that hid the marks due to shame. He did not care, not really, of the various scars lining his skin. He was not ashamed of those scars, not why he created them. He held no regret for a single stretch of scarred tissue.

Still, he supposed it was a good thing he was discovered and his blades were stolen from him. He still knew where they were, of course, they had not been hidden well and he had already found them by cleaning one day; but, it was a good thing.

He missed the rush of splitting the skin, hearing it tear and watching his body open to give everything it had in the most glorious of ways. Gods, he really did miss that.

But he, just as everyone else, hated when something had power over him. And yes, Genesis could freely admit that cutting had held power over him. It had become addicting, become a need.

That was the only thing he held shame for: getting addicted; though, shame still coursed through him for being careless enough to be discovered.

Regardless of his wants, it had still happened. He had been discovered, forced to swear amnesty. Now, in some sense of the word, he was free. Free from the addiction, from the need.

And that, at any rate, had to account for something.