krii7y has taken over my life

drip drop📚

trigger warning: graphic descriptions of self-harm, blood, depression, viewer discretion is advised, please be safe

Art. That's all it really was. Beautiful, misunderstood art. At least, that's what he told himself. He used himself as the canvas as he painted beautiful lines across his skin.

His preferred ink: his blood. His paintbrush: a razor from a pencil sharpener he had.

Sure, people would say that it's not art or that he's insane for thinking that, he couldn't find an ounce in him that cared, all that he could hear was that he had to make more art. The more there is then the less his mind will scream at him, the less mental and emotional pain there is. That pain, those feelings, all of them slowly disappear as new and better thoughts enter his mind.

It's art, it's how you express yourself and show the world what you're pain is.

That's right, he's just painting, he's not doing any harm. It's only art after all. A smile appears on his face as he pulls the blade across the skin of his forearm quickly, breaking the skin and feeling the pinch of the cut for a split second, then the blood started to surface. It came up in small dots, spreading in the cut until it was fully red, that's when it started to spill. It wasn't too bad, just one drop that was able to form and slowly make its way down his arm.

He made a few more cuts, the same as the first few, and soon most of his left arm had about 15 marks ranging from small to large, but all being about the same depth, luckily they weren't all that deep. But then he felt something falling down his cheeks, but he couldn't place exactly what it was, that was until his vision started to blur: they were tears.

Suddenly a wave of realization washed over him and he looked up into the mirror, seeing what he had done to his arm, to his body. There's red dripping down his forearm and to his wrist and his face was a bright pink with tears streaming down his cheeks at an alarming rate. He doesn't realize that he let go of the razor until he hears a slight clank as it hits the floor, it startles him and he looks down to where the noise came from, his eyes briefly seeing what his arm had become as his gaze trailed downwards. His eyes couldn't believe what they saw, how could he have done this? How could he have let himself do this?

His knees started to feel weak and he pressed his back to the wall, slowly sliding down until he sat on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. That's when the sobs started to leak from his lips, wrapping his arms around his knees and hiding his head so the sounds weren't too loud and his roommate, Smiity, wouldn't hear him.

"Help..." his voice was quiet and rough, no louder than a whisper as he tried to call out for someone to come and save him from the darkness that was threatening to consume his mind once again in a deep depression. More sobs started to come and he couldn't talk anymore, only cry harder. A knock at the door to the bathroom is what shakes him out of his state.

"Hey, John? You good, you've been in there for a while." Smit's voice rings out into the bathroom that was filled by John's quiet sobs and silence. He doesn't say anything, scared that his voice would reveal more than he would like it to. His silence must alert Smiity that something was up with his friend. "Talk to me, John, what's up?" the tone he used was calm and caring and it made John's eyes well up again with tears, and soon they started to spill again as thoughts flew through his head.

He doesn't care, he's just doing this because he feels obligated to as your roommate. You're nothing to him. He will never think of you in the way that you think of him.

"Woah, hey, are you crying? Do you need me to come in?" His voice grew more worried and John realized that he must've heard the cries spilling from his mouth, he had no idea how loud he was being until Smiity had said that and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand to mute the sounds escaping him, but it only seems to muffle them.