♫ 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒,
𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠,
𝑊𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑒, 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑘𝑒,
𝑊𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 ♫

— 𝙱𝚊𝚍 𝙻𝚒𝚊𝚛, 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚜

꧁꧂

It had been a long time ago that Bash first took a knife to his skin, so long that he could no longer even remember the reason for it. At first its uses had been small and infrequent, something to be used only as a last resort when his life weighed so heavily on him that he couldn't breathe under the crushing mass of it, a painful reminder that what they said was true, that he deserved it. But as time passed he would find his palm resting against the comfort of the hilt more and more often, even on the best of days, the cuts getting deeper, too, as he searched for something, anything, that would help him escape the darkness closing in around him. In some twisted way, he had even begun to look forward to it.

Now it felt almost natural to feel the blade slide across his skin, and he could watch with a strange satisfaction that thin river of blood sliding down his arm and pooling around his wrist before dropping in a vibrant splash of scarlet onto the wooden floor. There, it darkened as it seeped into the old wood, joining countless other dashes of crimson stains that had accumulated over the years. He tipped his head back and sighed in the small relief it brought him, biting his lip against the pain as the knife cut deep into his arm, deeper and deeper, until he was slashing desperately at himself.

Bastard.

That was all he was, he deserved this. He wasn't worthy of their love, only their contempt and their hatred.

Disgraceful.

The blood was pouring from his arm now, but he made no attempt to stem it. This was right, this was what they wanted.

Better off dead.

Was he? He knew they thought so, surely they did. How could anyone, even his mother and half-brothers, love someone like him? Someone so-

That's enough.

He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps, hands fumbling clumsily with a bandage as spots danced before his eyes. He could still feel the hot stream of blood soaking the white fabric as he tied it tight. He glanced at the window, cursing quietly as he remembered the council meeting his father had asked him to attend that morning.

Quickly now, he pulled the rug back over the bloodstains on the floor and pulled his sleeve back down, concealing the swiftly reddening bandage underneath. He pulled his coat over the shirt as he left, hurrying down the corridor towards the throne room, the secret dread in his stomach growing with every step he took. When he finally reached the arched entranceway, he stopped. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped inside.

꧁꧂

The council meeting lasted a long time, but he barely remembered it. Bash didn't even know what they were discussing; he had been too focussed on the people themselves to care. He could still feel their eyes boring into him, hear their whispered comments when they thought he couldn't hear them. He hated it, he hated all of them. All the anger, the guilt, the frustration was building inside him, churning constantly in the pit of his stomach until he couldn't think anymore. He wanted to scream and cry and shout all at the same time and it was driving him insane.

Better off dead. The words echoed coldly in his ears.

Was he?

Maybe he was.

Maybe he really was as worthless as they all thought. Maybe they would prefer it if he wasn't here at all. He could feel his breath quickening and his heart thumping in his chest. Tears ran unchecked down his face. This was what they wanted. They wanted him to die.

And maybe that was what he wanted, too.

꧁꧂