JUST MY TYPE

examinations and concentrations(1)

scara's pov!

i didn't know what it was, but the paper before me seemed much more manageable. i knew the answers. perhaps it was that i had prepared for it this time, or maybe that i had a different motivation this time. it would have seemed suspicious to anyone, the school's delinquent scribbling away at his examination paper as if he were competent.

if my assumption of their thoughts were accurate, i would have agreed. even to myself, it was surprising. i could barely believe that i, scaramouche, was writing diligently on an examination paper in high school. i had long before given up on doing well, no? it had become something that no longer served me a purpose.

who was i doing it for? i'd like to answer that i was doing it for myself. yet even my pathetic self knows very well that that's not the truth. but there's only one more answer, and i don't like that one. i refuse to admit that i was doing it for her.

it was silly, really. trying to impress her. not like she seemed like she was interested in dating anyway. what made me think i could change her mind? it was nothing but a hapless wish. why did i entertain such an idiotic thought?

focusing my mind back to the paper, i read the words in my head. "write an essay, based on the topic, blah blah blah..." my inner voice read out, and when my eyes caught sight of the topic, i froze. "write a short essay about a strong feeling."

strong feelings? envy. i knew that feeling all too well. how it felt to feel inferior, to feel jealous of others. how it felt to be floating aimlessly in the ocean with someone, and life throws the other a lifeline while it drowns me. rage. rage at myself, for not being good enough. cursing at the heavens, for making me so painfully inferior. rage at her, for being better.

i started writing.

tw: self harm

"in life, nobody is there to wipe your tears away or to gingerly move your diaphragm up and down to make sure you're still breathing. you have to do that yourself. at times, even when you don't want to breathe anymore; when you don't feel human enough to do that, you still do. for what reasons, you do not know.

kindergarten should have been a happy time for me. i should have gotten the childhood everyone fantasises about, with grape juice cups and petty fighting over toys and bursts of laughter. to this day, i curse the time when the heavens above refused to give me a reason to believe in happiness, what seemed like a fleeting dream. kindergarten was never fun for me; with bloody fingers from playing the piano too much, with hot tears flowing down my cheeks as i willed myself to memorise the things a six-year-old should have never been doing.

it was all to become the best- to be the perfect, flawless child every parent dreamed of having and every child envied. yet what use was it, if i was desired by other parents but not my own?

i enjoyed art and i excelled at it all the same. it was my form of escape. art was my thing. not hers. so when she waltzed into my life and stole my mother away from me using art, the very thing i was proud of, i broke down. i needed to take my mother back; even if her presence and her absence had no prominent difference. either way, neither noticed me. so i did more art.

so i would hold up my silver paintbrush,  painting pretty streaks of red on my canvas- namely my skin. it was such a satisfying sight, finally being able to do something which made me feel like i had something to be proud of for myself. sometimes, i used string instead, using my wrist as a gage, making shiny beads of red surface. sometimes, the beads would lose their shape, and i would groan in frustration, trying again on a different part of my arm.

when that didn't work, jealousy rose within me. it is like an internal, burning fire. a rage that gradually grows stronger, spreading into one's brain and into one's heart alike. it'll gnaw at your soul till it's nothing but ash, and then it'll grow. fire engulfs everything it meets and leaves it in flames.

it was then i had lost myself, and soon, my body's art had become my catharsis. honestly, it had become an addiction in a sense, and as my mixture of pain and pleasure increased in intensity, the red, stubborn lines that formed on my body that refused to disappear only grew in numbers.

and now, for some reason; perhaps a sick joke played by the heavens above, i meet her. she who had taken my life, my soul away from me and set it ablaze till there was nothing left, till scaramouche was merely an empty vessel with no heart, no soul, and barely considered human. and she seems more human than ever.

perhaps it is immaturity; or even idiocy. yet she makes me want to break down all over again; curse at her for making me feel so undeniably inferior, curse at myself for being inferior, and curse at the heavens above for playing such a cruel prank on me.

to this day, i still do art as my catharsis. red, is such a pretty colour."

authors note: idk what the fuck I was on when I wrote this. btw dm me if u want my venti cosplay pic ‼️‼️🗣️🗣️