Rusger Oneshots

Cutting

Angst Week No. 6!

I'm really sorry for this being late, been really busy and I lacked inspiration of how to end it XD

On a serious note, I've heard that there could be a raid on the CH fandom this month and in October, I don't know how exactly, cuz I haven't really been involved in such a situation before, and now I'm a writer with things that might be in danger because of some people that want to destroy our stories and our entire profiles if they're even related to CH!

So...just please keep safe. If you have stories, maybe having them backed up is a good idea, I'm not sure what I should do yet, but I do know if This book gets reported and deleted, I would not how to cope and I wouldn't know what to do ;-; 

For more info, maybe go look at @A_Random_Woman 's message board, or maybe someone else that you know who can get better information than me. And if you can, try and warn other creators and friends too! But make sure that its real information, don't spread too much panic around now-

anyways on with the story thank you if you stuck through reading all that-

(warning: self harm, blood, idk emotional crying stuff, past trauma-)

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Russia closed the bathroom door behind him, his hands shaking as he released the doorknob.

Going over to the sink, he rested his hands on the cool, white basin, looking down at the drainage pipe. He shuddered, and allowed a tear to slip down his face.

He didn't have a excuse. He didn't have a good reason why he started again. He didn't know why, he just found himself coming here again, closing himself into a bathroom and letting a bit of himself go.

He told himself he was happy, he had friends, he was independent, a world power, and most importantly, he had Germany. He was completed, there was no good reason why he started again.

But...he did. And now he found himself craving that small release every day.

'I'm sorry, Германия-' Russia whispered softly, as he found himself doing before every session now, and going to the small cabinet and pulling out his razor blade he usually used for shaving his human appearance's beard. He held it up and picked out the piece of metal in between the plastic.

It nicked the tip of his finger, and he took a quick breath. There was truth in the saying that big wounds hurt less than small wounds. A small drop of blood formed at the tiny, almost invisible cut, and he quickly washed it, barely noticing the sting.

After cleaning the silver blade, he rested his back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling to prevent anymore tears from flowing down his face. He blinked them away, tilting his head back and letting them drain down his throat so they wouldn't blur his vision.

Pulling up the sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt, he looked at his left upper arm, just above his elbow. Unwrapping the thin layer of white bandage he put there, he watched his skin reveal itself.

There were other thin, orderly lines on his already red skin, which made them slightly hard to spot. But they would form little bumps on his skin, and grazed against the bandage whenever he moved. Some were older, scabbing over and forming new scars, while some were still knitting themselves together.

Gripping the blade in between his thumb and index finger, he quickly brought it down, making another thin, swallow cut on his arm. This area wasn't abused like this before, unlike his wrist, which was covered in scars from his past. So it hurt more. He gritted his teeth together, letting the pain seep from the fresh cut to all over his body.