SPOILERS for Cinderfella (1960) and The Normal Heart (2014)
I had a kind of boring day so I decided to write about what would happen if Whump!Tony had been in my shoes yesterday. The thing with Steve actually happened though; my dad accidentally got a cut or two on his arm (somehow) while tiling a floor in his new house. He's a DIY guy (and also sometimes a bit clumsy) and his favorite superhero is our stubborn little Cap'n Murica here so I thought it'd fit.
Disclaimer: I own squat
You hit a fucking trigger. You've been clean for over a year, and everything you've built up to, every little thing you've struggled for has been torn down in just a few hours.
You have the place to yourself for the afternoon; everyone scattered around and doing something. The one time you don't feel the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders and you have hours to yourself.
It starts out just fine. You plop yourself down on a dark brown leather couch in front of the big flat screen television in the largest living room. Nothing good is playing so you decided to browse some of the movies on hand from around the nineteen fifties to the nineteen eighties. You find one that seemed okay; a nineteen sixties film called Cinderfella. You think "well at least it wont be the stereotypical girl wishing she had some guy she thought was perfect." Wrong. In the end, after Fella and Princess Charming danced, the clock struck twelve and Fella ran off. Princess Charming was left alone, calling out for her 'prince' and even shedding a few tears.
"Really?" You think. "Not one fucking movie like this can air without some girl crying over a guy." There wasn't too much to be aggravated about; it wasn't all that surprising. But it was a start.
Next was a beautiful movie about an angry man named Ned and his fight for raising awareness of AIDS and HIV during the 1980's. He had a beautiful romance with a wonderful character named Felix whose eyes and fate could both break your heart.
That was what invited the emotions to come in and make themselves at home within you; way down deep where you try to pretend like it's not just another cold, dark cave. You try to fill it with light and smiles, but somehow, all you can see in the mirror is everything you hate about life. Your hair hates behaving, your eyes don't work quite like they should, your bottom middle tooth leans back just enough that its enough to annoy the shit out of you but not enough to overshadow the annoyance of going through the trouble to get it fixed. Your skin is too light to be beautifully sun kissed but too dark to be gorgeously pale. You aren't as strong as you want to be, mentally or physically, and sometimes you just don't want to be here anymore if it means you have to be you.
But then you get distracted because a door opens and people pile in somewhere in another, but still close by room. Everyone arrives within a few minutes of each other and then something happens. Steve mentions he ran into a little bit of trouble on his supposedly routine mission. He was fine, yeah. Just a few little cuts on the inside of his arm. He flips it over and your eyes focus on the deepest gash. It's so small compared to his thick wrist but it's deep enough that you can see the fleshy inside that you're not supposed to see of someone's skin and by the depth and the little bit of dried blood still there you know it must've bled quite a bit. He refuses stitches, not wanting to bother with them, but says he'll accept a butterfly bandage for it after he cleans up some of his gear and himself first.
You're alone again a few hours later; everyone else is tired and has gone to bed. You should be too (you didn't sleep for too long last night) but then these thoughts pop into your head. Your mind starts buzzing and you know you're not going to get any sleep right now.
All that time ago, you only used your wrist. It was like a rule; as much so as locking the door. Your chest and shoulders would be too visible too often, it's ugly, almost dirty, to even think about it on your thighs. But your wrists; they're just perfect. They've been protected for almost your whole life being turned towards your body like they are. The slightly paler, flawless skin beckons to be torn apart and smeared with blood.
And that's exactly what you did. It's been a while though. You know it's bad and you can't risk anyone seeing and finding out, probably the only reason you've gone without for so long; too many people to notice. But then you think, "what about on your hip? Just one." Just one to hold you over until you can use your wrist again. It'll start getting cold here in a few months, and then you can enjoy every fluttery heart beat you get when you feel your long sleeved tee shirt brush up against those sensitive lines.
You gather your supplies and lay down on your bed. It was always your arm while sitting, so if you're not going to do one half the same then why do the other? You shed your shirt; you don't actually sleep with one on anyways in case you wake from a memory during the dark, dark night and need a bright blue reminder that your 'heart' is safe. You fix your pillows so that you can recline comfortably; not quite lying down because you need to see what you're doing. You pull at your sleep pants so that they rest very low on your hips. "Just under the bone will be a nice place," you think.
You're actually a bit nervous. Not about messing up or anything, but you know it's a bad addiction you can't afford to get lost in just yet. Thoughts sprint through your mind about everything pertaining to this moment and you suddenly realize that your thoughts have been a bit more frequent as of late. You've been craving it and now you're right at the edge.
Your fingers move on their own accord. They don't need the 'go ahead' from your brain or your heart or anything else; your entire being wants this so fucking badly. The dance is one preformed completely from memory because for so long this was who you were. This was your life and it's just so easy to slip right back into it again.
You feel a little bit of pressure, then there's the pain that always chases right after. It's so hard to find words for the experience because the pain is so dull and far away, yet so loud and in-your-face there at the same time. You feel high yet completely grounded and you find yourself wishing you could feel like this all the time. But then your one beautiful allotted masterpiece is finished and there's only the throb of your heart beat pumping blood through the broken skin. You reach for some bandages you gathered earlier and you wrap yourself up snugly, like you're wrapping up something precious because you are. And yet, you poke at it with your fingertips until you are sure nothing will seep past the bandages because you want to smother it and make sure it is never seen again because oh god things are going back to how they were and it's both a comfort and something you've been trying to avoid for so long.
You suddenly find yourself exhausted from everything that has happened and you begin to slip into unconsciousness. As you join your friends in their calming rest, your last conscious moment is spent hoping that the dreams won't come tonight. You wish for the welcoming arms of the deep black nothingness for just one peaceful night. Just one.