Try (bxb)

Chapter Twelve

[chris's POV]

Warning: self-harm.

Day two of Chris's heat. And then after it's over but uh yeah you'll understand when you read.

I don't sleep. Not a wink. It's not that I'm not tired- I am. But I can't sleep. Jason stays up until four, but when his eyes start to droop closed more often then they're open I tell him to go to sleep. That I'll be fine.

But I'm not fine. I'm confused and I'm scared. I don't know why or how, but somehow, I ended up thinking through the haze of lust that lies thick over me. Thinking about what happened today. The way that it felt, the way that my tears soaked the front of his shirt, only a fraction of what I wanted to let go. It wasn't enough. Hatred burns through my veins as potent and deadly as poison. Hatred for myself.

How could I do that? how could I let Jason do that to himself? I swore I would never do that to anybody. He's lying, of course. I've done it enough times to know that. The gagging, choking, the gasping for air and vomiting when he pulls out. It's hell. Being forced onto your knees, your hair pulled out of the roots. Your throat burning and raw. Not eating for days at a time, going as long as possible without drinking because swallowing hurts and it reminds you.

I love Jason. So fucking much. And yet, I did this to him. I remember miserably, the way that my hips jerked up of their own accord, though I desperately tried not to. How, through the haze of pleasure, I knew what was happening and yet he still held me. I'm filthy. I feel like there's dirt running through my veins instead of blood. Its under my skin, frothing into mud.

I have to let it out, to be pure again for Jason. To be what he deserves. I get up silently and Jason makes a displeased sound in his throat when the bed shifts, but he keeps sleeping. Oh god. Jason..

I bolt into the bathroom, fall onto my knees and retch into the toilet, trying to let out the sickness inside.

'You're filthy. Impure. Fat. Hideous. Jason deserves so much better,' the ever-present voice in the back of my head purrs, finally pleased with my actions. The sweatpants are soft and warm against my skin, soothing. a thin barrier between my knees and the ice of the floor.

My hands are shaking hard as I dry-heave, nothing coming out. My hands fumble through the drawers in his bathroom until I find what I'm looking for. A pocket knife. I switch out the blade with shaking fingers and lower it to my wrist quickly, slicing the flesh there. The now-separated skin immediately gushes blood, and to me it looks thick and dark, filthy blood.

It taints my wrist and hands a dark color and I feel a bit faint from blood loss but I still feel the itch, the burn under my skin. Pulling the knife smoothly across my forearm, stacking cuts on top of one another like a child's Legos, I can feel the cells pull apart from each other. I can watch the knife slice smoothly and deeply. I can watch all the evil in me bleed out. One, two, three, four. I manage four slits for all the monsters to slide out of before the knife clatters onto the floor and I fall with it, unconscious before my body hits the tile with a thump.

**

I wake up all of a sudden, gasping and bolting upright, which leaves me gasping and my head spinning. A rough hand forces me back down and I gasp repeatedly, gaining my breath.

"So. Christopher. You've been asleep for two days." Says a cold voice that I almost don't recognize. I tilt my head to see Jason staring at me with anger burning, blue fire in his eyes. I don't respond.

"Would you like me to tell you what it was like to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of my mates body hitting the floor that's slick with his blood? Would you like to know what that did to me Christopher?" His voice is deadly soft, and I finally notice that my wrist is bandaged. I vaguely note that my cast is gone. "Or maybe you'd rather I tell you about how you didn't have a heartbeat when I held your limp form in my arms, and I sobbed because oh my god I was losing you. Is that a better topic?" He asks me, and I flinch and start to cry.