Red sky at night
Shepherd's delight

Red sky at morning 
Shepherd's warning

⊙

San stared at a splatter of crimson liquid on the concrete wall in front of him. He watched on in the sleepy pre-dawn light, breathing steady, as it dribbled down the rough, uneven surface. He felt as it also ran down his fingers, coating his fist red, and dripped onto the ground with a sound too delicate for his human ears to hear.

Blood. His own. But the acknowledgment of that didn't ignite any feeling within him.

The sting of pain made his hand throb, but it was dull and seemed too far away for him to bother doing anything about it.

Letting his fist fly into that concrete wall had been a last ditch effort for San. 

He had had enough of emotionally tearing himself to shreds, so maybe the rawness of physical pain might have made him feel better. Maybe he'd finally feel a sense of completion that he'd punished himself enough.

But it seemed that even ripping his skin to shreds couldn't snuff out the perpetual feeling that constantly dominated his mind.

Disappointment.

San was a disappointment. No matter what his friends or coworkers said, no matter how many times they showered him in hollow remarks of commendation, he knew it to be true.

He was a disappointment, most importantly to himself.

San unfurled his fist and flicked his bloody hand in annoyance, spattering blood over a bag of trash at his feet. The thin plastic of the bag had perforated, garbage within haemorrhaging out onto the grimy ground of the cramped alleyway behind the convenience store. 

Tiny droplets of blood decorated torn ramen packages and used tissues. San sneered down at them in disgust.

He brought his other hand up to the blooming flower of red on the wall and smeared it over the faded graffiti which covered almost every available space on the alley's walls. Then he pushed himself back from the wall and turned to face the dented aluminum back door of the convenience store.

Self-loathing sat in the back of his mind. Constantly present. Always there to remind him.

His opinion of himself was what mattered most.

How can you expect anyone to love you if you don't love yourself? He could hear his mother's nagging voice in his head, reminding him of that truth.

He had to do better. He had to be better.

But still, no matter what he did, San still felt inadequate. Nothing he did was ever good enough.

He glanced down at his hand, assessing the damage. Blood dribbled slowly from the torn skin covering his knuckles. But the wounds, though many, were small; it wouldn't take long for his blood to clot and stem the bleeding.

Still, he ought to cover it with something. He couldn't be bothered with any of his coworkers asking questions, concerned or otherwise.

He trudged up the two steps to the back door and yanked it open. He took one last glance over his shoulder at his own bloody addition to the wall of graffiti.

Overhead, the inky black sky was lightening with the coming dawn; San’s early morning ‘insomnia’ shift was nearing its end.

San sighed heavily, shedding his thoughts of inadequacy and disappointment on the doorstep, leaving them behind to deal with another day. Then he stepped inside and let the door fall shut, leaving smudgy red fingerprints on the worn door knob.