(A/N: Trigger warning~ SELF HARM AND SUICIDAL REFERENCE~) 

~Dipper's POV~

It's face was smooth, the first thing I noticed when my hand rested upon its skin. An ominous warmth omitted from the creature, as if I were waving my hand just above a lit stove. It was terrifying to feel such a thing, and yet such an undeniable urge. An urge. What was this urge I had? This strange concept which felt so familiar, yet left me feeling so lost. I couldn't grasp what I felt, yet, I enjoyed the shear energy it evoked. It was like left over cherry pie in the fridge, if that makes any sense. Like finding something I wanted, but not in the form that I wanted it in. Death. That's what I wanted. Yet, the concept of finding death in suicide felt... wrong. It was a sure thing, something you knew wasn't often undone, and it frightened me. I still had so much left to do. I wanted a family. I wanted friends. I wanted to graduate high school and go to college and be something. The thought of suicide had popped into my head once or twice, yet I never took it, all because of this undeniable desire to live and create a 'me' that I didn't hate. A 'me' that was most definitely not me, but someone I'd love to hang out with and get to know. Everything that I felt hopeful of; friends, family, a good job; It all held me close to the ground and tied me to this Earth. I was always so optimistic of the future, hoping that things would slowly get better, and I'd be happy.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and was rustled from my thought, being twirled around to face an enraged Pacifica and a frightened Mabel. Once again, I could see their mouths moving and their eyes strained on mine, begging for attention, yet I refused to give them any. I couldn't hear them, and it wasn't because I had another song in my head. It's because she was whispering to me. "Dipper. Wanna see something?" I didn't really care either way, but my head still seemed to slosh from side-to-side, reluctantly peering over my shoulder to take a peek at the creature. It broke my heart at what I saw. It was momma's face, plastered onto the beast's body, a trickle of tears poking past the rim of her glossed, dead eyed. Her eyes were poor and pale, yet seemed to trail me just the same without pupils. The corners of her mouth drooped in sorrow, almost clown-like, as a single tear fell from her face. I felt sick. She was in so much pain and I had no idea why. Her face was so sad. Her face was so... scary. 

Her dead eyes, watching my every move, welled up with tears of blood as she stared. Oh God. The blood was so thick. Not slick rolls of watered down blood, mixed with tears. Thick, clotted, deep red shades of blood, slowly sliding down her face as she watched me, disappointed. She didn't like me anymore. Maybe I'm just not what she wanted. Maybe I'm just no- "Dipper!" Pacifica shook me, snapping me back to her attention, forcing me to look her in the eyes. "Where is it?! What did it tell you?!" I put my hand on her cheek. 'It's so smooth', I thought. Human flesh... I hate how soft it feels. I hate how easily it can be torn open. I wanna rip her face open. I wanna rip her face open. I wanna-  

What am I thinking?! "Get away from me!" I push her away, my back bumping into the nose of the beast. Mom. Beast. Mom. Beast. I crouch under the creature's chin, hoping to be hidden by it's huge body. Hoping to hide my shame. I cover my face with my hands, wishing to claw away this mask of mine, as if it were made of rubber, held together by glue. As if I could remove this shame so easily. This face. God, this face. It's sick. I want to look away from it. To deny its many crimes and flaws. Yet, I can't run away from myself. That scares me more than anything. An uncontrollable shiver is drawn out of me, and I find it unbearable how petrified I am. Of what? What do I fear right now? 

Myself. I fear what I have. I fear the power I evoke from within, the things I've done, the things I've had done to me. I can't run away from it, no matter how hard I try to scramble to my feet. I always manage to trip and get the wind knocked out of me, to be infected, filled, with everything done to me. With everything not yet done to me, but surely to come sooner or later. A cry, perhaps my own, is heard. I clasp my hands around my own mouth, feeling the open gap which I used to release this cry. 'Yes. It was me. I made the sound.' I muffle the sound. I cast it away as best I can, squeezing my rough hands over the opening of my mouth, preying to God for silence. The webbed area which protrudes between the thumb and the index finger, I bit into it, if not to stifle my screams. Yet, I could still hear it, the pained shriek which slipped beyond my fingers.

'I feel so powerless', I think to myself. I feel as though the cries have grown. Or shrunk. I can't quite tell. My head, my brain, feels ready to burst, pooling up with stress. The pressure. How do I stop this feeling? This muscle-stiffening pain, which provides no hopeful undertone, no stopping, no end. End. This word... Something about it feels... Hopeful. 

~Pacifica's POV~

He's lost it. By God, he's lost his mind. "Dipper?!" I call after him, hoping to receive some sort of response, whether or not that's even possible at this point. I assess the situation. Where could that monster be? That's the most important thing at the moment. If we can chase the monster away, we might have a chance of snapping him out of it. Or, at least, help treat him. I don't wanna get my hopes up but, if things go smoothly, Dipper'll be back to his normal self. Or, whatever I should call how he usually acts. 

He's crouched down, a continual scream echoing through the streets at a constant pitch. Why's he crouched down like that? "That's weird." Mabel says, and I know we're both on the same page. Is he sitting... under it? I turn my body to face Gideon, hoping for reassurance. "Yo! How many shots do we have if we wanna make this work?" With luck, we'll have enough ammo to make a few oopsies before a direct hit's made. "Did you just ask me how much of an already limited supplies of a very rare element we had left?" "Good point. Dumb question." Well, geez. It's not like Dipper's gonna tell us anything, and I've only got intuition to guide the gun.

"Mabes! Any way you could read his mind or something? Get a read on its position?" Mabel looks at me with a sneer. I guess that was somehow a dumb question, too? "All he's doing is screaming. And all the other thoughts he has are creepy images and late-night-thinking stuff. I don't think information like that would be very helpful." Oh my Jesus. We're literally no help at all. Damn it. God Damn it! "Gideon. Give me the gun." I turn towards Dipper, avoiding Gideon's gaze as I set my target: Right over Dipper's head. "What?! But I wanted to-" For peet's sake. "Gimme the damn gun, Gideon!" A moment later, I feel a weight in my hand. A cold, slick feeling, yet not glass-like. It doesn't feel quite as delicate as glass. Plastic, maybe? Who cares? 

I refuse to take another moment's thought, afraid I'll overthink everything and chicken out. I cock the gun at my target, hesitating if only for a moment against the trigger, only to fire. There's a pause, an irrational fear that something has gone terribly wrong, only for a green glow to develop at the muzzle of the gun, a strong pressure quickly building up, before releasing and striking what I hope to be the Leak. The blast stops abruptly above Dipper's head, splashing and splattering, as if prevented to go any farther by a wall of sorts. Though Dipper's screams had not discontinued, I was sure that the Leak was where I had suspected it to be. "Yes! Fuck yes, baby!"

I turn to Dipper, beaming with joy to know he's safe, only to be brought back to reality. We chased away the monster, but the beast wasn't destroyed. He's still under his influence. And, even if the Leak had been killed, Dipper probably wouldn't be any different. The monster didn't make him this way. Dipper did. "Dip-bro?" Mabel asked, looking down at Dipper's shivering body. And, as I watched on astonishingly, he stopped screaming. His hands, still clamped to his face, slowly shifted downward to reveal two vibrating eyes, as if they wished to take in every instance of their environment. As if, for some reason, they couldn't miss a thing, or he'd be dragged away. He was consumed by fear. His eyes, fixated on Mabel, seemed to grow in diameter. It was as if he didn't even see her. It was like he saw something past her, something that was past everything. I wanted to see what he saw so badly, yet, I only saw her.

He stood, if not wobbly at first, to his feet in an instance. Eyes, engulfed in the black emptiness of his center, seemed to be in a continual state of expansion. A tear, stained blood-red, dripped from his eye, trailing down his cheek only to land and be absorbed by his muscle-shirt. Dear God. He was crying blood. "Oh... God, Dipper." I took a step back, clasping a hand over my mouth, begging for my shrieks to be kept under wraps. I mean, I wasn't scared of him. But... Just... eye-stuff. Ew. All gooey and squishy. Did that thing puncture his eye ball or something? UGH. I don't even wanna think about that right now. "Yo. Dude. What's going on with you? Say something." Mabel seemed desperate. I didn't think she'd be scared enough to even consider a response from him. There was no way he was even conscience enough to understand what she had said. Right?

But then, he opened his mouth, and the words which followed were more frightening that a whole bucket of squishy mushy eyeball guts. "That which comes from dirt, shall return to dust. Those which are shiny as silver, shall slowly rust. That which is born of the sky, shall be snatched from it. All which is born, will meet a shallow pit. The Earth shall open up, a red sky present, and this child of death shall be the glowing crescent." Okay. I'm not sure who's talking, but it can't be Dipper. It sounds like him, that's for sure, but everything's off. Not even an ounce of white is present in his eyes now. Instead, he stares on with vacant black eyes which continue to well up with blood. Child of death? This isn't making any sense. I didn't read anything like this from the journal, and chances are, the author would have written down if he had said something like that. So, why was Dipper the one who said it?

I stood their, hands in my pockets, though my demeanor was a complete mess. All I wanted to do was get a response, a word from him. I wanted to reach out and grip his shoulders. Shake him 'til he snapped out of it. But, I was afraid of him. Yeah. I'm afraid. He could lash out and kill me if he wanted. He could slit my through open with his pointy claws or bite my neck open with his razor sharp teeth. He could rip off my limbs with his glossed over gaze or break my neck with a snap of his fingers. He could pop my eye balls open and suck the juices out or- There was a sudden twitch from him, one which made me jump even farther back in fear. He lurched forward, clenching his stomach in a sudden surge of pain, and I could tell what was about to happen. His eyes snapped shut, his shoulders bunching up, just as they had the first time I saw him do this. He puked. Not his earlier intake of beer and other snooze juices. Instead, an inky black substance which looked to bubble and slosh as it passed his lips and mashed up against the gravel. Instead of being disguised and grossed out, as I had earlier assumed I'd be, I was mortified. What... Is he? What is this? Did it come from the beast, or did it come from within? Within him? This child of death. This crescent... 

Dipper stood from his clenched position, woozy as he was, only to begin to tilt. Without a thought, Mabel was by his side, evening him out. His head lulled, bending forward and sideways, as if confused by directions. Mabel squeezed his wobbling body against hers, prepared to carry his weight home. She lifted his face, checking for scratches or bruises, infections or further bleeding. Or, something... strange. However, once his eyes opened, they were once again his lovely shade of brown. His head, leaning against her shoulder, peered up to look at her, a smile of pure joy spreading over his confused face. "May-man?" He mustered, squinting his eyes in order to get a better look at her. In an instance, her face broke out into the same goofy smile as his, and I could hardly see a single difference in their features. They seemed happier to see each other than anyone else could ever be. Mabel, without hesitation, took his head between her arms and hugged him with a serpent-like grip, Dipper's laugh, although weak, was a sign of absolute joy.

I was overcome with shame. Dipper was a human being, and yet I feared his very presence. Although I enjoyed his company and found him undoubtedly attractive, fear overcame me when things looked rough. I felt sad for myself, and I hated that. I hated how I had looked at him, and, to myself alone, I made myself a promise. Dipper's the only one who needs protecting. I'm up for the job. 

~Present day~

~Dipper's POV~

I watched Pacifica, squirming in her seat as she sat down next to me on my bedside. What was she so worried about? All of the sudden, she was acting so protective and weird, and I was afraid of what I might have said after blacking out. There's already so little I remember, and I don't recall what happened after the Sheriff showed up. Not even a little bit. But, for whatever reason, people were beginning to treat me strangely. That, in of itself, was unsettling. "Paz... What's going on with you? You're acting all weird. Like, what are you even doing right now? What are you even talking about?" Maybe she was still drunk from last night? No. If there's one thing I know about Paz, it's that she had hardly had even a single drop of liquor last night, let alone her entire life. 

I stared at the side of her face as she fought to remain indifferent towards me, refusing to look into my eyes as she spoke. "I... I don't know, dude. Like, I'm just super worried about you, you know? Like, it's just, like- I mean, you're always so mopey and after last night I-" She paused, her lips curling into themselves, as if to prevent even a single more word from escaping her. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What? She couldn't tell me all of a sudden? It wasn't like I had asked about that, but it was her loose lips that said anything about last night, so she might as well just tell me. If it involves me, I think I have the right to know about this shit. "After last night? After last night what?" I could see a visual stiffening up as she continued to avoid my gaze. For some reason, this left me incredibly pissed.

Like, what? You suddenly can't tell me about shit that seriously involves me?! Jesus, Paz! Come on! I continued to size her up, trying my best to remain calm, but an obvious air of tension began to grow between the two of us. My fists, squeezed tightly and sweaty on the inside, began to ache as their muscles stretched and grew tighter, yet I refused to let up. The pain seemed to keep me attached to the conversation and calm me. However, my mind kept rushing back and forth, filling in the blanks she was leaving out. And, to be honest, I wasn't liking how my brain was making out last night's possible outcome. Did she... do something that might make me mad? My ears perked up, hearing Pacifica's lips part, a small intake of air just barely loud enough to pick up. 

"It's nothing. You don't want to know." "Fuck if I don't,. Yeah. I really do wanna know." The words just kind of escaped me, but I knew I couldn't take them back. Why was she hiding shit from me all of a sudden? Had I done anything to give her the impression that I wouldn't be able to handle it or something? "No. Trust me. It's not the best conversation starters right now." "I can't think of a thing I'd find more interesting to talk about at the moment." "I can." "Sure you can. But that's not what we're gonna talk about right now." "Dipper, I just don't feel like talking about this, okay?" "Well, I do. Someone's gotta have their way in this, and I think I deserve to know." What was I supposed to say? I hate to get angry with her, but she's not budging. What could I have possibly done that was so terrible? What could she have possibly done? "Well, damn it, Dipper! It's not exactly an easy topic to give to people! Like, what do you want me to tell you?" "The truth! That's all I've been asking for! Just fill me in, alright?! People've been acting weird today and I was really hoping that I'd get some fucking answers, okay?!" 

She just sat there, stone-fucking-cold faced, maybe checking over my carpet patters on the rug of the bedroom floor. What the fuck is she thinking?! I can't even make out any of her fucking thoughts, they're going so fast. Damn it. Fucking God damn motherfucker Jesus Christ asshole bitch snake titties. I'm gonna explode if I don't get some fucking answers. "Well, shit, Paz! At least fucking try!" I stood up from the bed, enraged by her lack of response. What the Hell, Paz?! I feel a shiver go up my spine and my muscles tense up. 'Stay cool. Calm down, bro. This is all fine. We're fine. She's fine. Everything's-' "You know, last I checked, you were keeping shit from me, too! So, don't go acting all high and mighty, like you're the only one who's been hurt by this! You hurt me too, Dipper! And I'm trying to understand you, but I don't, okay?! Feels pretty shitty, doesn't it?! You won't give me a damn thing about how you're feeling and all of the sudden you're like 'Oh gee Paz. I really wanna know. A-boo-hoo-hoo.' Fuck it, okay?! Just leave the topic alone, alright?! I'm not gonna tell you, you little bitch!"

I stood there, her words lingering in the bedroom air. I could tell by her expression, she instantly regretted saying anything. And, for an instance, I could make out a few of her thoughts. 'I didn't- Damn. If he'd just open up a bit-' Well damn, Paz. You're the one who came into my room to give me an eraser. You want answers. I want answers. We all want answers. But, if you won't even fucking cooperate-! I took in a deep breathe. Calming. Chameleon tea. Rain drops. Bamboo sticks. Ballerinas. Jazz. Ew. Jazz. Just- just some shit to keep me decent. But I feel like I'm gonna ring her neck-... What the hell am I thinking? No! I don't wanna hurt anyone. I do. But I never wanted to. I just wanna hang around her and be her friend. I don't wanna-... But, I kinda do. In a way, I wanna get rid of her. I wanna take that blond sheet of hair and swing it by the roots. I hate her. I fucking hate her.

"Get out." "What?" I couldn't tell you what her expression was. I didn't look at her face. Maybe she was mad. Maybe she was disappointed in me. Maybe that was exactly what she had expected to happen. I don't know. Because I ripped her from the bed and onto her feet. "Get out of my room, okay?" My hands gripped her arms as I yanked her body up, forcing her to her feet. "Dipper, I'm sorry! I really didn't mean it. I-" "I don' fucking care. Just get out." I hustled her to my bedroom door, gripping the door knob with an intense strength. Only then could I tell how tense I was. Whatever. I embraced it. The door frame shook as I ripped it open, shoving her into the hallway. "Dipper, wait!" She jammed her foot between the door and the edge of the frame, hoping to prop it open enough to reason with me. But I wouldn't.

"Move." I could tell she was upset with me, but I didn't want anything weird to happen here. I didn't want to hurt anything. I didn't want these deaths. I knew she had heard about them. The second she entered this town, I'm sure she picked up from a news paper, a local TV station, or a resident of this town, what had happened here. The unsolved murders. She never even mentioned it to me, yet I knew all along that she had heard about them. Murders. Murders I had committed. Murders ordered onto Mabel and me to commit for Grunkle Stan's own gain. And, sometimes, murders for our own gain as well. And, if she were to continue badgering me, I don't know if I'd be able to contain myself. "Dipper Please! I just wanna-" "Paz. just leave me the fuck alone." There was a pause. A silence. Then, she slowly slid her foot away from the door, allowing me to close it. As it did, I could hear her shifting her weight in front of the doorway. She was waiting for me to say something.

I pressed my ear up against the door, picking up slight breaths being taken and the occasional sniffle. "Well. Okay than. Call me if you need anything, dude. Uh. Hold on a sec." There was a ruffle, and I could tell she was looking through her bag for something. A slight rip. A small scribble. The folding of paper. And then, a sliding sound from underneath my door. A single slip of paper. I listened for a moment more, waiting for her to officially leave. Once she did, I ducked down quickly to retrieve the paper. Unfolding it, I found the numbers '297-221-2020', scribbled sloppily, yet she didn't give up the opportunity to sketch out a few criss-cross stars and a dog with laser-eyes in the margins. Goof ball. She was so sweet sometimes. Jesus, I'm an asshole.

Jesus I'm a bitch. I'm a lil' fucking bitch. Damn it. I hate everything right now. Fuck, I hate everything. I hate this room. I hate this carpet. I hate myself. Stupid fuckin'- I grip at my hair, feeling the tension build up inside of me. 'you asshole. You bitch. You jerk. You failure. You idiot' I can feel the burning anger inside of me. I can feel so many desires. So many wants and needs to get this feeling out of my system. And, in all, I look towards the window. The window that Paz had entered through. The same one which, if I look out of it now, I'll see her leaving. Leaving. 'Just leave me the fuck alone.' I meant it. I needed to be alone. I needed to collect my thoughts and calm down. But now? Now that my thoughts are all good and collected? I need her. I need a friend.

I feel so lonely. Stupid fucking window. Stupid fucking room. Stupid Paz. Stupid window. Stupid me. Stupid Stan. Stupid window. Stupid ceiling. Stupid window. Stupid thoughts. Stupid window. Stupid window. Stupid window... What window? That one? I look over at it, still propped open from when she climbed through it. 'That window' I thought to myself. What about it? 'Wouldn't it be so easy to just-" Yeah. I-... Guess. I guess it would be easy. But, I've jumped from that window before, and nothing bad's ever happened to me. 'What if I didn't try to save myself from the fall? What if I just hung their in the air and let gravity carry me down?' Good question. What would happen? Would I get hurt? Would I die? Would someone come and save me? Would someone try to save me? How would people feel if I got hurt and died from this height? What would they think of me? 

'Wanna find out?' My feet, hard-pressed on the shagged carpet of the room, begin to move robotically towards the window, thoughts popping into my head as I do so. Images like Stan, standing over my body, a hand clasped over his mouth in horror. 'He really does care' Pacifica, hearing from some anonymous individual on the street that I had just jumped. Her eyes growing wide with surprise. 'Bet you didn't suspect something like that from me.' People like Candy and Gideon, shrugging off my death, just as should be expected. My feet make it to the window sill, my hands resting on either sides of the window pain, peering out of it. 'I bet I could do it if I tried. I bet those things would happen. I bet I'd be a lot happier, too!' I can almost feel the excitement building up inside of me, ready for a new experience. I take one last look at my bedroom setting, feeling almost fearful of leaving it behind. 'Cosset player; Outdated. Bedspread; old-lady style patterns. Manga collection; Nerdy (I should probably burn some of those before I do anything else)' 

I found worldly possessions, yet nothing worth staying for. I turned back around, facing a beautiful day outside. The sun was shining and the people outside were smiling. Well boy, were they about to be in for a treat. I could feel myself growing closer and closer to my end, a knee propped up, ready to jump up and over onto the other side. But then, just before I could put the nail in the coffin so-to-speak, another image popped into my head. Mabel. A memory, more so. I don't know what we had been doing that day, but I remembered how she had looked at me. The background, an autumn scene. A single orange leaf, I could see, fluttered in the scene behind her, out of my field of vision once it was gone. I saw the image in first person, her smile facing me as we walked who-knows-where. It was like a Gif. A continual, eternal cycle, with the image replaying over and over again. She turned to me and smiled. Then, she turned to me and smiled. Then, she turned to me and smiled. Then, she turned to me and smiled.

Over and over again, the image replayed in my head, and I was brought back to my senses. Fear, creeping up my back as I thought of what I had prepared myself to do just moments earlier, was unbearable. I pushed myself down from the window sill, breathing heavily. I slammed the window shut, a rattle of its frame threatened its shattering. If anything, I felt more intense than before. More tense. More afraid. More lonely. How I ached for days like that every day. I hurt. I hurt sometimes, and the emotional pain was something I had never before experienced so violently. It was too real. I was alone. I was-

A surge of energy burst through me, and I found myself punching the wall repeatedly. 'No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. No more thoughts. Get out of my head. Get away from me. Stop creeping into me. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.' I could feel the vibrations of the wall, a continual surge of power present in each of my strikes. I felt my left fist, screaming viciously with pain and protest as the slams became more violent. I could feel it. The warm trickle of blood beginning to leak out as my skin broke open. 'No more thoughts' It was liberating. 'No more thoughts' I had never before felt so in control, so strong. A continual rhythm. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Each one, accurate and in tempo with the rest of them. One at a time, not two. My hand, begging for mercy each time as the punches grew stronger and heavier.

Then, I stopped abruptly. The wall, blood-splotches present in little droplets, had begun to collapse inward with each slam of my fist. I couldn't afford Stan or Mabel seeing this, but I was revved up enough to do anything to keep the pain going. No more wall-punching. Someone would hear it. Someone could see the wall collapse, and I needed to scrub off that blood. I turned to the window. Not a second thought. I punched it. My hand went in, caught on some glass, and went out, scraping viciously at my arm. I pulled out a piece still attached to the frame of the window. Not a second thought. I rushed to the bathroom, which was conveniently placed next to my bedroom, and locked the door. The white tiles. They had never looked so white. The tub, scrubbed clean by a separate maid of ours. Individual toothbrushes were placed humbly in a plastic red cup; One purple. One blue. I moved them from atop the sink, placing the palm of my hand within the center of the sink's white bowl.

I straightened my arm out, locking in my elbow for a perfect canvas. My left arm, ready to go as it was resting stagnantly in the sink. My right hand, gripping the glass with such excitement I half expected the glass to draw blood from my hand before anything else. And then, I began. Death was never the intention and I had never before supported or understood people who did these sorts of things. But now, I did. And it was beautiful. I pressed the shard of glass against my skin for a moment, before slicing directly through. 'Holy shit. I'm actually doing this.' For the first one, I paused. I looked at the blood, running gooishly down my arm. It was as if a flash of white light had appeared with my first slit. My first. I saw, for the time being, a thick red line of blood, which had begun at the base of my forearm, now running down to congregate between the spaces in my fingers. To stain the white, shiny sink. A pool, a small pool, began to form.

And that had just been the first one. 

Consistently. Consistently. One two one two one two one two, the glass went. It quickly went down my arm, seeking to draw as much blood as possible. One two one two one two. Consistently. And when the blood had covered the cuts which I made on the back of my arm, I dared myself to turn my arm over and do the front side. 'Do the side' I thought. 'Do the side with the vein' I turned my arm over slowly, seeing the faintest coloration of blue, stretching from the base of my elbow to my wrist. I bent my hand back, examining the blue vein which congregated at its wrist. My wrist. I took the glass, examining it, only to place it over the vein. I wouldn't cut it, but I wanted to imagine how it would feel. Blood. Splatters of blood. The protrusion of my separate veins, possibly. My tendons, snapped. My hand muscles, screaming. I didn't like this feeling. Yet, at the same time, it was excitement which filled me.

I removed the glass from my wrist, instead switching hands so that I could do my right arm. The same effect left me in undeniable bliss. Or was it not bliss? More so, satisfaction. Yes. I felt satisfied with my work. I felt the blood, the warm stickiness, oozing over and out of my arm. Some was watery. Some was thick. Some became like jello as it stood out in the air. What didn't drain away or make it to the base of my arm instead congregated on my person. As jello-like molds of blood, it would maintain its droplet shapes, hanging vulgarly from my arm. Frozen in place. Disguising smell. It was like opening up a thawed out, 1 LB of ribs, the scent of blood rising up to your nose as you tried your best not to spill it on your clothes. This, I realized, was the same thing. I too wished to open something up and receive blood, but I guess that's not how other people see it.

I turned on the faucet, watching as the hot water blasted on, creating a dent in my ocean of blood. 'The backs of my arms. Not the fronts.' The water alone wasn't able to brush away the blood in the sink, as I had previously assumed it would, so I resulted to splashing it. Brushing the jello-substance towards the drain as the powerful flow of hot water washed it down. I looked at my arms, seeing the streams which still had not stopped flowing. Others, only stopping because the blood had dried. However, I knew if I washed my arms, the wounds would bleed open once again. I lightened the strength of the faucet, resulting in a soft stream of warm water, which I placed my arms under. I looked as the sleeves of the hoodie I had woken up in (most-likely placed on me by Mabel after I puked up that alcohol in front of Pacifica). A black hoodie with two people on the front of it: One man. One woman. Eyes closed. Black hair. Blood on either of their faces. 'My chemical Romance' I thought to myself, a cocky smile present as I leaned my elbows into the sink. 

I stared at the hoodie, wondering if the blood on the picture was real blood. Maybe I had splashed blood on it? Maybe the blood was mine. Maybe this blood was all mine... I checked the sleeves of my hoodie once more, a sigh of relief exiting me as I assured myself that blood was kept away from them. I placed my attention back on my arms, a sickly sign of skin present. Over the slits I had made, I see small strains of skin, which were ripped apart like shreds of cloth. Once I turned off the faucet, a new layer of blood began to expel from my cuts, swirling their way though the now-slick surface of my arms. I leaned over the toilet, quickly grabbing a roll of toilet paper which stuck to my left arm perfectly. I wrapped the paper around me, the inking of blood present in certain areas, once again pooling up and staining my makeshift bandages. I stared at them. 'Am I satisfied now?'

I look to the bathroom floor, small droplets of blood present. I don't wipe them away. Someone'll take a shower and the splatters will get washed away by someone's wet feet on the tiles. I look to the bathroom door, but refuse to leave. I feel too exhausted to go anywhere anyways. Instead, I roll my sleeves up over my bandages as gently as I can, to keep from blood tainting the insides of the hoodie. I look to the bathtub, deciding to settle myself in it. My feet, converse from last night still present on them, are kicked up next to the shower's faucet. My head, resting slothishly against the base of the tub, is tilted back, allowing me to stare at the ceiling as much as I want. And, before I know what I'm doing, the words escape my lips, "This night... walk the dead. In the solitary style and crash the cemetery gates. In the dress your husband hates. Way down. Mark the grave. Where the search lights find us drinking by the mausoleum door. And they found you on the bathroom floor. Well, I miss you. Well, I miss you so far. And the collision of your kiss, that made it so hard. Back home. Off the run. Singing songs that make you slit your wrists. It isn't that much fun, staring down a loaded gun. So I won't stop dying. Won't stop lying. If you want, I'll keep on crying. Did you get what you deserve? Is this what you always want me for?"

I like this song. The vibrations of the words feel good against my throat, bent back like this. I sing it. I hum it. I try to whistle it. But, overall, I try to hear it. 'Make you slit your wrists' Weird. I want to know what he means by that. No one made them do it. Unless the songs were that sad. Or, maybe the songs weren't what made that person sad. Maybe the songs just fueled the sadness. I guess that's good. If you run out of fuel, the train'll just break down. And if the train breaks down, what's the point of it at all? But, I guess too much fuel is back for you. Overworking a train can be bad for its condition. Damn. I like trains. A weird thought, but yeah. I like trains. They're so powerful. I remember, when I still lived with my mother, I would tell all the kids at my school that I had a train in my backyard. It was kinda true, but even I knew it was mostly a lie. Behind my house, there was a single pair of train tracks, which working trains would speed past on every day. 

I remember thinking I'd ride those trains one day. I'd work with coal and spend my days shoveling coal into the mouth of the train's engine. I'd keep that bad boy ticking over. One time, I remember my mother crying. I couldn't have been more than five or six, but she began talking to me like I was a grown up all of a sudden. She talked to me about payments on the house. How she couldn't afford it this month. How our bitch-ass father never sent us any money or even showed up anymore. At that age, I still didn't understand what it meant to be a bastard, but by the way mom had talked about it, I knew it was a bad thing. She talked about how hard it was to take care of children on her own. Then she took a shot. She talked about how badly she had been treated in her father's home as a child. Shot. She talked about how we were ungrateful to her and everything she gave up for us. Shot. She talked about the neighbors and everyone at the grocery store judging her. Shot.

And, in the middle of that, she said, "And your jackass father used to think that riding the rails would solve all of his problems. That's when he left." My mother had told me that much. We lived near train tracks because that's supposedly what my biological father did for a living. And one day, when he went off to work, he rode the rails as far away as they would take him from us. They weren't married, so he didn't have to worry about coming back, and mother knew he wouldn't, either. That's when my obsession with trains started. I've grown out of it since, but at eight years old? God damn, it looked like I had just made love to Thomas the Train when you walked into my bedroom. Except it wasn't Thomas the train. It was real trains. Rusted pictures of clunky silver trains. Trains during the industrial era. Bullet trains in China. Trains covered in graffiti. Posters. Posters. Posters. All over my wall, posters of the trains my father could be riding back home on.

Every day after school, I sat outside, watching the trains go by, imagining my father hopping off of one. I imagined my father crouching down next to me, looking me straight in the eye. A 'Hey sport' would come from him, followed by the ruffling of my hair. I remembered seeing it in a movie at one point, and had too little observance of real father-son relationships to understand how overrated and corny that was. Yet, either way, I wished for it. After a while, I stopped sitting outside to wait for him. He could kiss my ass for all I care. But I still wanted to see him. I was too young to remember his face and mom threw out everything that even resembled him, except for my train-related things, of course.

If he saw this, would he care about me? Would he feel responsible for what I've done? In all honesty, I hope not. I wonder if he'd come to my funeral. I wonder what his name is. I wonder if he has a new girl now and if that girl has children he actually loves. I wonder if he knows mom's dead. I wonder if I can find him... "Um... Dipper? Knock knock." A timid voice present on the other side of the bathroom, muffled by the doors barrier. Mabel... Wait. Of shit, Mabel! I wrestle myself out of the bathtub, clambering to the floor as I scramble to cover up the last of my evidence. Shards of glass. Bloodied tissues. And, even though I said I wouldn't, I wiped up the last few blood droplets. "What are you doing in there? What's all that racket?" I can't keep her waiting for too long, or she'll get antsie. "G-Give me a second, okay?" Fuck. Just one more blood spot and I'll be golden. Just one more... "Dude. There's glass all over the bedroom floor. Did you break the window?" My heart drops for a moment as I think of the wall I had punched right next to the window. Perhaps she didn't notice it next to that huge display of glass.

"Uh, yeah! Sorry about that! I broke it by accident, but I'll clean it up, okay?" I tried my best to calm down, but everything was moving so quickly. I scrambled to my feet, unlocking the door, so I wouldn't keep her waiting too long. "Listen, I-" Before another word could escape me, she pulled me in for a mega-Mabel-hug. "You sure you're okay?" I could feel the stings underneath my sleeves, feeling the wrapping rub up against my skin in its soiled state. "Totally." I embraced her, ignoring the scorching pain I received as my arms squeezed her. And, in the back of my mind, I could still hear the words repeated in my head: Make you slit your wrists.