Hey y'all... this one-shot is incredibly angsty. If you're at all interested in what prompted me to write this (don't know why you would be. it's sad and depressing), the last two chapter of my rant/vent book pertains to this.

Now for the trigger warnings: Self-harm, depression, lots of self-hate, blood

Virgil POV:

I was sitting in the living room scrolling through Wattpad when it hit me; the urge to go to my room and cut.

All the other sides were in their rooms, so there was really nothing stopping me. Except, there was one thing stopping me. I had promised myself that I would stop last time, and I had managed to be clean for 155 days.

The other sides knew that I have depression and used to cut, so they were able to help me when I had panic attacks during my first week of being clean.

But now, they were all asleep, and the urge was stronger than ever.

I remembered something that Patton had told me once when I was first trying to be clean. He told me to write down my feelings and try to see why I was feeling that way, and I did just that.

Creating a draft in one of my books, I wrote down what was going on in my brain, and, sometime while I was writing that, something shifted in my brain.

I started scratching at my arm with my fingernails, trying to make a cut.

"Damn it," I whispered when I realized that I had just cut my nails. They were short now, so they would do nothing.

When that didn't work, I set my phone down and went to my room to find something sharper.

I got to my room and looked around to see if I could find something that would work. I couldn't see anything at first, so I went into my bathroom to try and disassemble my razor.

After struggling with it for a minute or two, I gave up and went to the kitchen. I didn't want to use a knife, because then I'd have to clean it and there would probably be a stain. Instead, I rooted through the drawers until I found a thumbtack.

Grinning, I went back to the couch and sat down. Dragging the thumbtack along my arm, I felt the sting of my skin being sliced, and I relished in it.

You see, my depression made it so that I would feel completely numb, and cutting was the one thing that made me feel.

I kept dragging the thumbtack along the same place, making the cut just a little bit deeper with each swipe.

After a few minutes, I paused and wrote down what I was feeling in the draft. I felt like such a failure because I had given in, but the urge to cut even deeper and make myself bleed was too overpowering.

Suddenly I heard a creak and a door close, and I immediately grabbed my phone and the thumbtack and raced into the bathroom in the hallway.

Placing my hands on the edge of the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror, and I couldn't help but think of all my flaws. I kept finding new ones that made me hate myself even more than I already did.

Looking into the mirror, I told my reflection all of those flaws that I had found.

"You have a weird space between your teeth that makes your smile look like trash. When you smile it either looks fake or like you're trying too hard. Your eyes squint weird when you smile. Your cheeks are too chubby. Your laugh sounds so obnoxious. Your eyes always look so tired. Your stomach is too fat and you need to stop eating so much. Your thighs jiggle when you walk or run, and it's so obvious when you wear your favorite pair of pants."

I could have kept going for a lot longer, but I instead grabbed the thumbtack off the counter and started to cut in the same spot.

With each slash, I listed another flaw.

Slash
Worthless

Slash
Useless

Slash
Idiot

Slash
Outcast

I froze again when I heard someone walking down the hall. Once they had passed, I grabbed my phone and ran into my room to continue cutting.

When I sat down on my bed, I saw that it was just after 11 o'clock. A part of me knew I should sleep, but that part was infinitesimal compared to the urge I had to make myself bleed.

I wanted blood. I wanted to see blood forming little beads on the edges of the cut. I wanted that reminder that I was, in fact, alive.

Picking up my thumbtack again, I resumed cutting. I repeatedly dragged the thumbtack along the cut, pressing hard to try and draw blood.

After a while, I grabbed a tissue to see if I had been successful. I pressed the tissue against the cut and lifted it up, hoping to see red, but I was disappointed when there was no blood.

A grim determination came across me, and I went back to cutting. I kept telling myself that I wouldn't stop until there was blood on that tissue.

Every so often I'd pause to check if the cut was bleeding, and, on the fourth or so check, there was, but I didn't stop. I kept going, wanting to see myself bleed more.

After I pressed the tissue to the cut to check for what must have been the 7th time, I looked up at the clock and saw that it was 11:35 pm.

I sighed, feeling happy with what I had done.

Getting up, I went to the bathroom in my room and turned on the sink. I knew that I had to wash the cut if I didn't want it to get infected. An infection meant that I would have to tell the others what I did, and I wanted to keep this as much of a secret as possible.

Once I had washed the cut, I grabbed a gauze pad, ointment, and some medical tape. Putting some of the ointment on the gauze, I taped it over the cut so that it wouldn't move.

After I put the supplies I had grabbed away, I crawled into bed. A small smile was on my face because I knew that I could feel.