Fandom: Anita Blake
Rating: PG-13, for swearing & self-abuse.
Notes: Spoilery for Cerulean Sins. Short one-shot, written for the 'secrets' challenge for Naked Page*.
Summary: So Richard cut his hair, and everyone was shocked and worried that it was a sign of emotional trauma. But... what if that's not all he'd done, just the only thing everyone knew about? What if that wasn't the only way he'd lashed out at the world, and himself?
The scissors were a last resort. But what else could he do? He was out of razor blades, and he'd found out already that other blades just weren't worth the hassle. Grimacing, he thought about the first time he'd cut himself.
It was purely accidental; he'd been changing the blade when the newer, sharper metal sliced into his fingertips. Bright red welled to the surface and the few drops that managed to escape traced mesmerizing pathways down his fingers. The blood dripped once, twice, and one final time onto the pale porcelain below. Staining his sink like it stained his skin, like it was starting to stain his mind.
Slowly, he placed the razor handle to one side, the shiny metal winking at him, encouraging him. Another gleam caught his eye, and Richard gave his attention once more to the blade in his other hand. Carefully, with almost surgical precision, he drew it along his palm lightly. Nothing. He did it again, deeper this time, and was awarded with a thin sanguine line before his supernatural healing kicked in.
It became ritual, each morning before he'd rid himself of facial hair, he'd push his limits with the blade. A nick on the arm here, a slice on the shoulder blade there... It served to push away the thoughts of Anita and the mess that was rapidly overtaking his life. Ruby red blood that hypnotized him, transfixed him until he'd wipe it off or lick it away. Changing the blades was more interesting, as it allowed him greater freedom with the depth of his bloodletting. Sometimes he'd even nick the vein in his wrist, hoping this one time, just this once, he'd empty his life on the tile, and always knowing in the back of his mind it never would.
It was a safe little game. It provided control in a world gone mad.
Once, just once, he'd played with a silver blade. The burning was satisfying, as was the lingering wound, but it was too conspicuous. He'd had to fend off too many questions from wolves who'd smelled the blood and the lingering scent of silver burn. Not to mention the curious glances at his angry red fingers from holding silver that was too pure, for too long.
Of course, he'd sported scars from that little session for a time. They were faint, dainty things, dancing across his abdomen and pectorals. In a few days they were gone, fading back into the perfect golden tan that was his flesh.
So now he stood in front of his mirror, scissors in hand. Angry at her. Angry at himself for being angry at her. Hurt and angry and confused and frustrated and fed up and crushed and.... The first lock of hair fell into the basin. 'Fuck her,' he thought. 'Fuck her to hell and back.' This was his life, his body, and he was in control. Another chunk of coffee-brown fell next to its predecessor. And another. And another, until he was staring as someone he didn't know, panting.
A small speck of regret blossomed in his heart. Why had he done it? To get back at her, for taking his control away. And now what did he have to show? A used box of razor blades and a hideous haircut.
'What does this prove?' a small voice whispered to him, in the back of his head.
'It proves that I'm in control,' he snarled back.
'No, it doesn't. Not really,' the voice persisted. 'It shows that she has the ability to control your emotions even now. You're letting her get to you.'
This time he audibly growled, and swiftly crushed the voice back down. He was in control, damn it. Not her.
Not her.
