Courage
by Hayley, 2001
summary: Zac and self-injury. all lyrics from The Tragically Hip's "Courage."
rating: PG-13 or R for language and traumatic stuff.
disclaimer: Not true. also, this story deals with self-injury. if you can't handle, please don't read.
Watch the band through a bunch of dancers
Quickly, follow the unknown with something more familiar
Quickly, something familiar
Courage, my word, it didn't come, it doesn't matter
I stumbled blindly through the crush of people backstage, the crowd still roaring in my ears. I could hear everyone as I walked past them, faint cries of 'Zac'. They sounded far away. I just had to get away from them. The need was urgent. I couldn't let them see me. Like a fucking alcoholic looking for a quiet corner to curl up with the bottle, away from the prying eyes.
I don't even know where I was, just some room, with a desk and a chair. A desk. Perfect. I sat down in the chair and immediately pulled it right up to the desk. My breathing was ragged. I don't ever remember breathing like that. It just seems like something you only read in novels, not something you actually do. But tonight was different. Worse than usual. Just that...pounding...pressure. God, I don't even know what it is or where it comes from. I don't make much sense. It was just so bad. Just all shaking and ragged breaths. I need to fix this. I need this. I raised my left arm and brought my wrist down against the edge of the desk. Hard. I raised my arm and brought it down again. Harder. Again. Again. My breathing evened out as I kept slamming my wrist onto the edge of the desk, again and again. The pressure eased off as my wrist turned red and swelled up. I couldn't hear the crowd echoing in my ears anymore. I closed my eyes and heard nothing but the sound of my own flesh making contact.
Sleepwalk, so fast asleep in a motel
that has the lay of home and piss on all of your
background and piss on all of your surroundings
Courage, my word, it didn't come, it doesn't matter
Fucking MTV assaulted my eyes as I lay on the bed. Tay and Ike were nattering on in the next room about something. I changed the channel. Doesn't matter what it is, I'm not really looking at it. I'm not looking at anything. I'm not even thinking. It's so weird. Just...being. The sound of my name brought me back. But no one was talking to me. They were talking about me, in the next room. Bits and pieces floated over to me.
"...we have to make time for the fans, Ike.......they're the only thing keeping our career alive........Zac isn't making it any easier.....he doesn't like them...........he's downright rude to them, Tay........we have to talk to him......he definitely needs to shape up........we don't need attitude right now.....too much else to do."
Fuck. I got up and darted into the bathroom before they could come have their little "chat" with me. I hate all of this. I halfheartedly banged my wrist against the bathroom counter. And that little voice that sounds suspiciously like Ike crept into my head and said "You can't do that now, Zac. You have to play in a few hours and you need your wrists in top condition." I scoffed. That's exactly what Ike would say if he knew what I did. The both of them, all they care about is getting us to the top of the charts again. I felt the pressure building. In my chest, in my head, closing in around me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I looked longingly at the wonderfully hard edge of the counter. I need this now. I fucking need it. 'Why don't I just start randomly cutting myself instead?', I thought sarcastically. 'Yeah, that would be much less noticeable than bruised wrists.' That's not why I don't cut myself, though. Cutting's too serious. That would mean there's something wrong with me. Banging my wrist is okay. It's not serious. It's just something I need to do. But I can't fucking do it right now, 'cause my wrists will be too sore to play in a couple of hours. Fuck. I need it, though. I need something. Something else. I balled my hands up into fists and prayed for the pressure to go away. I squeezed my fists tighter. It hurt. Wait a sec. I looked at the palms of my hands. There were perfect half-moon indentations carved into each hand. Of course. I haven't been biting my nails lately, I take away my nervousness by banging my wrists. I carefully clenched my left hand into a fist, purposely digging my fingernails into my palm. Delicious. Sharp. Biting. Pain. A slow smile spread across my face and I curled my right hand into a fist. And squeezed.
So there's no simple explanation
for anything important any of us do
and yea the human tragedy
consists in the necessity
of living with the consequences
under pressure, under pressure.
Courage, my word, it didn't come, it doesn't matter.
Courage, it couldn't come at a worse time.
Everyone was surprised at my good mood on the bus after the concert. I think they were all relieved to see me smiling. Of course I was smiling, why wouldn't I be smiling? I just sat there, beaming, my hands in my lap. The perfect picture of blissful innocence, sharply digging his fingernails into his palms while grinning at his unsuspecting family. It's so perfect, why didn't I think of it before? I don't even need to get away from everyone to do it. It doesn't hinder my playing, my hands just ache a little. I ease off when I'm about to draw blood and wait a few minutes for the marks to fade before I start again. It's so perfect. And a better pain than the dull throbbing of the wrist banging. I always thought it was lacking something. This is better, so much better. So sharp. Piercing. A quick, satisfying sting. This is just what I needed.