Drak sat and stared at the wall of the room, in particular the door. He knew it wouldn't be long before someone came in to check on him. He mentally cursed the fact that the house was simply too crowded to allow anyone to be alone for more then a few moments.
This was so frustrating for him. He didn't want to have to fight the others, he didn't want to have to act contrary to his nature to impress her...he didn't want to have to deal with other people all the time.
Drak had spent the majority of his life in darkness, almost alone. He was used to the company of one person, to which he spoke infrequently. He could sustain himself alone. In fact, he was generally happy alone.
He had never gotten along with others. He had never felt as if he belonged with them. He was something strange, something alien, pretending that it could fit in. It had taken him weeks to learn to use silverware when he had first been forced to leave his only home. It had taken him months to learn not to simply say what came to him in fear that he may be wounded.
He didn't trust other people because he didn't understand how they acted. He didn't understand the social mannerisms, he didn't understand anything of that society at all. He didn't understand the term "society" in general. He couldn't comprehend people living and working with one another and talking...talking to eachother and seeing and relating to eachother ALL the time...
It was exhausting for him to live in this house...every minute someone was following him, asking him questions, telling him to do things...it was impossible for him to relax at all. He couldn't breathe in this house...he almost couldn't think...
The overwhelming pressure of other people crowded out his thoughts.
They wondered why he left for periods of time on long walks, which was another thing that bothered him. He couldn't even leave, because they would stay with him. He would worry about them and worry about their reaction to his departure.
He was stuck with other people forever...
Drak wished he hadn't been forced out of his existence in the cave. His pleasant, simple, lonely existence. Now he had the pressure of other people on him, and he wasn't sure what he could do...he didn't know how to react...
He certainly didn't know what to feel...or what to say...
He was hiding in the room because he wanted some respite and he simply couldn't stand listening to everyone talking all the time. Talking hurt his ears and confused him. He hated talking to others and he hated it when others tried to talk to him. What he hated more was himself for feeling this way, because he knew that they only meant well. He couldn't hate them and yet...he did. He hated them because they were other people, and his torment was other people.
Because he could barely deal with himself alone, much less others.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at his own body. He closed his eyes and thought back to his past. As usual, there was just a fuzzy idea of living with Mewtwo...nothing ever came past that. He knew there was more...he knew there had to be something more, but it never came to light. He was never sure of what it was.
He stood as he heard someone knocking, then left as Colt entered the room.
"Where you going?"
Even Colt's voice, which normally made him feel more-at-ease because it somewhat matched his own in the ability to communicate with other people, made him more irritated in his current state. He didn't say anything, only walking down the stairs and out the door.
Colt watched him leave, then was roughly shoved aside as Caleb walked into the room.
"What's with him?"
"Depressed again, I think." Whenever Drak was depressed, it affected Colt, because Colt felt attached to Drak the most out of all the people who lived in the house. Drak was like him in many ways. That was why Colt couldn't muster the proper amount of anger to retaliate against Caleb's shove.
Caleb slammed the door. "He's always depressed. What a jerk."
Colt turned to the now-closed door angrily and muttered under his breath. He had more respect for Drak's privacy then to follow him when he obviously wanted to be alone. He turned and walked the opposite direction from the stairs.

~~~

Drak wandered into the backyard, not feeling like wandering the streets. People walked the streets...and the last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment was other people.
It was mid-morning and the mist that was typical of this area had yet to fade. It was pleasantly cool, at least, to him. It obscured everything only slightly, but he found that he liked the atmosphere.
He wandered into the overgrown rambly area near the edge of the fence that enclosed the backyard. Apparently Ella E's family didn't believe in yardwork as the plants here had grown out of control. There was the single, solitary tree in the center of the yard, but near the fences the plants were given free reign.
Drak stood and stared at the plants, touching them occasionally, sighing. Plants didn't talk or jabber or fill his head with inane things that didn't make any sense to him. Plants didn't have a society or rules or...
Competition...
Drak noticed a large clump of roses near the corner of the yard. Turning back to the house, he found that the area wasn't directly visible from the house. Noting this, he went closer to the roses.
The roses were wild and overgrown through neglect. Blooms interspersed randomly with thorny branches. Drak kneeled and stared at them, looking in particular at the thorns.
Carefully, he reached underneath one of the large flowers and snapped a thorn off. He studied it in his hand. It looked much like a claw. He pricked his finger gently on it and found it to be surprisingly sharp. An adequate protection for such a pretty flower.
How he hated having to be here and having to be with people all the time...having to listen to them joke and laugh and say things that confused him. Everything was so confusing...
He just wanted something to make everything clearer...he wanted to know something about himself...he wanted to know his past and he wanted to know why he felt this way about other people...
He found his arm against the ground and the thorn poised above his wrist. Not alarmed in the least, he instead pondered about what had caused him to perform such an action. His hand remained above his wrist, as if waiting for the last confirmation to go ahead with what it apparently so badly wanted to do.
Drak glanced towards the house, finding that he was entirely out of view of the house. He was satisfied by this...if he DID want to do this, there was no way that anyone could see him...unless he was careless...
IF he wanted to do this...
Drak tried to find a rationale. Maybe if he did this...then the pain would block the banter in his head. Maybe if people saw what he had done, then they would stop talking to him...stop trying to be close to him...he wouldn't have to deal with other people anymore...
Apparently his hand found this motivation enough.
It took a considerable amount of effort to push the thorn in deep enough in his wrist to draw blood. His body was rejecting such treatment and his hand at first simply would not apply the pressure. But he continued to force it, ignoring the pain, and he found a bright droplet of blood his reward.
He continued to move the thorn through his skin, finding that others disappeared from his thoughts while he marred his own skin. There were no others anymore, just him and the thorn and the mist. He was alone.
It felt wonderful and counteracted the pain he was feeling rather well.
He wasn't sure what his hand was doing or writing or anything. He wasn't really looking at his hand, but at something past it. It was almost as if he had passed into another state of consciousness as he continued to rip into his wrist. He wasn't aware of himself or others or anything. Just...nothing...
He snapped back into the real world as the sun's heat on his back felt like it was burning. Turning, he squinted angrily at the sun, which was the cause of his return to the real world.
His return to people.
Remembering what he had been doing, he turned back to his wrist.
The wounds were long and jagged, signs of repeated slashings, but not deep enough to be life-threatening. His entire arm, however, was covered with flaky dried blood. Brushing it off distractedly, he stared at the message that his hand had decided to write.
M-2 Spc. D.
Drak shivered so violently that he almost fell forward into the rose brambles in front of him. Recoiling from his arm, he shoved it down against the ground, obscuring the wound from his sight.
He felt light-headed, dangerously so, as if he was going to pass out at any moment.
After keeping his arm down for a few moments until his dizziness passed, he turned it over again and stared.
The area around the wounds was dark. He would have expected it to be pale, but it was dark, almost grey...or black. He rubbed at it for a moment, thinking that perhaps he had gotten some dirt into the markings. They WERE stinging.
The black stayed.
Drak suddenly realized where he was. He looked back at the house. What would they think when they saw this? They...what if...
A million negative situations ran through his head, causing him to curse himself and his own stupidity for doing such a thing to himself.
However, the more he stared at it, the more he liked it. It was so appealing to him...although he stared at it in such a way that he didn't read it as words, he enjoyed the fact that he had done this. He remembered why, as well. Because he didn't WANT to deal with other people. This should do the job...
He liked it...
But he wasn't sure what to do about it.
He reached for his pockets with his unwounded hand and found himself still clutching the thorn. Instead of it's previous black, it was now dark red.
He threw it from him angrily and turned back to his pockets. Did he have anything to cover this...? He couldn't walk back into the house like this...he would have to explain when he felt comfortable...
He found nothing.
Panicking, he noticed a pair of rusted garden shear near him in the grass. He wondered briefly why he hadn't thought of using those for himself, then realized two things.
It was rusted, which meant he could have gotten infected and died, something that he didn't particularly look forward to doing.
He hadn't seen them.
He grabbed the shears and looked back at the house. So far, no one had come out to check on him. Good, they had learned from his previous leavings that he preferred to be left alone.
He put his shirt between the two blades and tried to force them together. It creaked and shrieked angrily. The blades were still sharp and cut the fabric, but agonizinglly slowly and painfully loudly.
Finally pushing them entirely together, Drak took the jagged piece of fabric in his hand, wiped it off on the rest of his clothes, then tied it around his wounded and still bleeding wrist. It stung horribly as soon as fabric touched it. Angrily, Drak swallowed the pain and headed towards the house. He hoped that no one would notice.

~~~

How could they not?
The true question was not whether or not they noticed the new fabric wrapped around Drak's wrist but whether or not they decided to do something about it.
Everyone assumed that it meant nothing, one of Drak's little idosyncracies that he was fond of having. They were sure he had his reasons, and even if they asked him, would he tell them anyway? Maybe it would just drive him farther away...
So no one did anything about it.
Drak was grateful, yet somewhat resentful of this. He washed his hands with the fabric on his wrist, he ate with it on, he slept with it on, he did everything with the fabric still in place. Yet, it was as if it wasn't there.
Didn't they notice?
Did they even care?
Was he so unimportant that they couldn't even notice a little change in what he was wearing?
This bothered him to such an extent that he almost felt like taking off the fabric during dinner and showing them all. Show them that he was unhappy and that they, indirectly, were responsible for it.
He didn't want to do that.
Sometimes.
He didn't want to blame anyone but himself. They were trying their hardest. He had no right to be angry at them for trying. This unhappiness came from him not accepting what they tried to do for him. This unhappiness came because he was ungrateful.
He sat in the room again, wondering how long it would take someone to come in and whether or not he would hear them coming before they actually did. He had taken off the fabric, which had taken a dark red tinge from his wrist, although this was almost impossible to see unless one got very close to it. Which no one did.
He was running his fingers over the wounds. They were closing into thick red lines, once weakly covered in what his body had considered protection. He showed his contempt for his body's attempt to heal itself by pulling or scratching off the scabs. The alternate reason he had for doing such things was that he didn't want it to heal. So he continued to pull off his healing skin. It didn't hurt much. It certainly hurt less then doing the actual cutting had. He didn't mind.
He was fairly sure that no one else did.
The lines were now glaring red, thick and menacing. Without the scabs covering them, they looked painfully exposed. They were.
He hadn't actually read the message since he had written it. All he saw was lines or letters, never words. It didn't shake him anymore because he no longer saw what he wrote as something that meant something. Meaningless letters and scratchings. He hadn't thought about what it said since he had first read it. It had been pushed to the back of his mind where it was easily forgotten.
He continued running his fingers gently over the raised skin. He never tired of staring at it. It was so...strange...
Something within him made him like it. It was almost like proving that he didn't belong with other people. He wanted to be alone, why didn't they leave him alone...? Now he had done this. He hoped this would get the point across.
They had forced him to do this...
No...he couldn't blame anyone but himself...
He felt oddly tranquil as he as continued to run his fingers over the scars. S...p...c...
He could hear footsteps down the hall.
Moving with speed that he had learnt over the period that he had to cover his wrist, he wrapped the fabric around his wrist and tied it in a swift knot, using his teeth as another hand to pull it tight. His wound protested such tight quarters by causing his entire arm to tingle with pain and his wrist to sting terribly. He didn't care.
He was used to it.
It wasn't as bad as he thought.
He sat up on the bed and stared at the door, wondering if someone would open it. Then, wondering why he even cared, he fell backwards, staring upwards at the ceiling.
He didn't really want to move after he found himself in such a position. He let his arms out, letting his hands fall naturally. He stared upwards with tired eyes, thinking to himself.
Considering his position, he felt as if he was being crucified. Crucified...
He could feel a nail pounding through ONE of his wrists.
He heard the door open, but didn't even move his eyes in response. He remained quiet, restful. He marveled at how his chest continued to move of its own volition. Why did he breathe...? It seemed so incovenient...
"Hey."
Drak showed no response to Colt's voice. He continued to stare upwards.
"What are you doing?"
Drak didn't even want to exert the effort to talk. When he finally did force his mouth to move, his words came out thick and caused his throat pain.
"I'm staring at the ceiling."
Colt paused. "Why?"
Drak forced his mouth to move again. "It's interesting, really. More interesting then most think. You should try it sometime."
"What's wrong?"
Drak remained quiet. NOW they were noticing? Took them long enough. Why should he care about them now? Why hadn't they noticed at first?
Why hadn't they gone looking for him while he was out in the garden?
"What happened?"
Again, Drak didn't want to respond. What was he supposed to say? There was no way to explain what he did. He had no reasons. None that they would understand. Why even bother?
"Drak, why is that around your wrist?"
Drak found a response escaping him in a painfully sarcastic tone. "Like it? I've had it for weeks now. I'm glad someone noticed. It's the latest fashion."
Now it was Colt's turn to be silent. He walked to the bed and grabbed Drak's arm.
Drak mentally protested, but physically did nothing. He was ruining his crucifixtion. His arm was being torn out of it's nail...it burned...
Colt didn't even ask him. He grabbed his wrist and untied the knot, letting the fabric slide away slowly.
Drak wished he could have mustered the energy to turn and face him to see his reaction. Judging by his silence, Drak could tell he had shocked him. He found another statement escaping him without conscious knowledge. "Like it?"
Colt dropped his wrist back in it's previous position. Freed from it's tight prison, it throbbed freely. Drak wondered, or perhaps hoped, that it was bleeding. But it had already sealed somewhat...so unless the pressure had caused it to burst, then...
"What is this?" Colt sounded offended. Not quite the reaction that Drak expected, but fairly close.
"I don't know." Drak's voice was light and carefree for some reason. "I thought maybe someone could tell me. You seem to have been the only one to have noticed. What's it mean? Can you tell me? Can you?"
His voice was getting sing-song near the end and then petered out. Colt sat down on the bed next to him. Drak was annoyed that his perfect crucifixtion pose had been ruined.
"You did this?"
"I did. I did in the garden. I did it with a thorn. I got rid of the thorn though, I didn't need it after I was done." Drak wasn't exactly clear on what he was saying. Words were just escaping him. He felt heat rising to his face. Not embarassed heat...just...heat...
"Why?"
"I don't know!" Drak sounded almost happy as he sang in a peculiar tone. "I already asked you. What do you think?"
Colt didn't respond.
The heat flooded over Drak's whole face and he finally understood why.
It was to heat the water that was building in his eyes.
He lay in silence as he felt the warm droplet slide past his check and land against the sheet with a soft noise. He felt it's twin slide past his other.
He sounded so happy. Was he sad? He...didn't know how he was feeling...
"Drak, why are you crying?"
In truth, Colt was scared. He had never seen Drak this bad. He had gotten close to being this depressed, but never this far. He had never seen the dark boy cry. He spoke of death and sadness, but he never actually cried...
"Do you think I was trying to kill myself...?" The strange lilting tone in his voice was gone, replaced by a confused childlike whimper. Drak didn't know what he was feeling. His face was so hot...his head hurt. "Be honest."
Colt stared at his own hands for a few moments. "No."
"Really?" Drak continued to stare at the ceiling, wondering why tears kept building at the corners of his eyes to fall down to the sheets. "Why not?"
Colt sighed. "It's not deep enough. It's a message. And...it's only on one hand."
"I can die from one hand..."
"You didn't do this to die."
"You're right." The answer was so quick that it startled the two. Drak paused for a moment. "You're right, I didn't. That's one thing down, I guess. Got any other theories?"
Colt was quiet for some time. Drak didn't mind, it let his throat rest.
"People...you...you want to scare them away...so you won't have to deal with them..."
Drak finally looked at Colt, who was staring fixedly off at someplace beyond what he was staring at.
"Everyone is always asking you...asking things from you...wanting something for nothing...they want to watch you in pain and when you try...to help them, everything comes back against you...you don't ever want to deal with people again...they only hurt you and make things worse...people...they hurt so much...you have to get away...or GET them away..."
Drak sat up.
The change in altitude caused the tears that had been building in his eyes to fall freely. He found himself stunningly blank faced, but his eyes were beyond his control...
His face was burning...streams of moisture dried slowly on his cheeks.
Colt was looking at his hands, then he turned to Drak.
"You know what I'm talking about...?"
Drak didn't respond.
Colt was wearing a large sweater. He picked at the cuffs while he continued speaking. Now that Drak had noticed such a nervous movement, he realized that he had rarely seen Colt with anything close to short sleeves. They always came down to at least his wrist, if at not past that.
"Did you know why I always wore gloves...?"
Drak watched for what he knew would come.
Colt was silent, then apparently didn't feel like he had any reason to try and be slow about it. He was, by nature, a quick and forthright person. He grabbed the cuff of his sleeve and pulled it above his shoulder in one smooth motion.
His upper arm, down past his elbow, and stopping about halfway down his forearm, was covered with a pattern of scars.
Drak stared in surprise. They traced in patterns and formed words, at times swear words, other times words such as "lonely" or "pain", each of them engraved in his skin as if it had been burned there. Patterns of sharp jagged shapes, perhaps from something as simplistic as a sharp rock, a broken bottle, a paperclip, a safety pin...small semi-circles that could only have come from nail-clippers...two lines that almost met except for a gap between the two...scissors...
Line drawn so thin and so deep that curled around everything...a knife...
It stopped abruptly at a line drawn around his entire arm with another sharp implement...a limit for himself.
Colt stared at Drak with clear, angry eyes. "I know what you're talking about."
Drak wasn't sure what to say, but something escaped his mouth anyway. "When did you do that? How?"
Colt wasn't sure whether or not to let the covering fall back into place, but in the end he left it up. His voice didn't change. "I did it when I was younger."
"Why?"
"I just told you."
Drak suddenly felt resentment burning through him. Was Colt doing this to try and impress him? Was he trying to show him up? He could have just shown him one. He was just proving to Drak that his little scarrings were nothing compared to what he had done.
As always, Colt was better then Drak. And Drak was hating him for it and hating himself for hating him.
Unfortunately, all that came out of his voice was hate. "Just give me some time and I'll make my arm even worse then yours. Don't think I won't."
"That's not the point, Drak." Colt let the sleeve slide back into place and stared directly into Drak's eyes. Drak felt extremely uncomfortable and let his eyes slide to his own wounded wrist. "This is a warning."
"A warning against what? I don't see what's wrong. They aren't life-threatening, even."
"It starts out small." Colt grabbed his wrist and held it up to his face, as if Drak couldn't see it enough. Oddly, when Colt was holding it he didn't want to look at it. He again turned his eyes away. "It starts with something little and then people make you promise."
Drak tried to look Colt in the eyes and found that fury was burning in them. "People make you promise not to do it again because they think that they care. They make you think they care. They don't want you to hurt yourself, but if they really did feel that way, why did you feel you had to in the first place? They make you promise. They make you promise again and again because they don't trust you the first time."
Drak stared at the wounds on his wrist and ran his fingers over them. Colt pushed his hand away, grabbing the wounded wrist and staring at the scars himself. He nearly threw it back at Drak. It wasn't the dark boy that Colt was angry it, but rather himself and his own memories. Drak moved away from the stronger boy slightly and continued watching him warily. He didn't trust him and he certainly didn't feel like getting a lecture from him.
But...if he really didn't want one...why did he let him unwrap his wrist...?
"They make you promise, but you can't stop. You have to do it one more time. You have to write one more thing, you have to let it out. You don't even feel angry anymore when you do it. It just happens and no one understands. It's an addiction. And when they see that, and they will, they make you promise some more. They make you promise more times because the last was broken and they trust these promises even less because you broke your other one. Because you can't stop, the promises keep getting broken and neither of you ever get any wiser. Eventually you're left alone with your scars, and that's when they really begin to grow in number."
Drak continued staring at Colt, wishing that he didn't understand what he was saying.
"I want to tell you something." Colt rubbed his shoulders gingerly. "It isn't strong to do this to yourself...it's weak...I was weak and you're weak as well...for trying to get away from everything this way...it doesn't work. It isn't a good way to deal with your problems. It just makes them worse. It makes more problems for you do deal with then you already have. Just hope...that it hasn't taken control of you yet and this won't destroy you..."
"Like it did you."
Drak regretted his words after he said them when he saw Colt's eyes fall on him. He felt anger rising in him for Colt trying to lecture him. What did Colt know? Colt did it himself, he had no right to tell him himself.
"I didn't do this because...because of what you said! I did this to try and understand something about me! I did this because I wanted to know something...I wanted to block everything so I could KNOW..."
"Know what?" Colt's voice was getting angry as well. "ARE you a lab experiment, Drak? ARE you like the others? ARE you like your Mewtwo?"
"SHUT UP!" Drak shrieked at him, a clawing pounding in his head beginning to cause his eyes to throb. He pressed his hands to his head and tried to silence what began to sound like screaming. "NO! No, I'm NOT LIKE them!"
"Then WHY!?" Colt was shouting now as well. Normally someone would have tried to calm Drak down, but Colt's response to agitation was to agitate right back. This was why he was not good at comforting anyone. Now this was clear to the both of them. "Why did you write that?"
"I DIDN'T!"
Drak lept off the bed and ran out of the door, leaving a black, blood-stained scrap of fabric fluttering behind him. Colt watched him leave bitterly, feeling his own face increase in heat.
Angry at himself for such weakness, he looked to try and find something to solve this.
He noted a tack in the wall.

~~~

Drak ran out into the roses.
He tripped and fell heavily, his arms crashing through the brambles and causing more gashes to line his arms then he already had. He gave a strangled cry and fell back, dragging the majority of the thorny vines with him. Angrily he threw them away from himself, ignoring the thorns piercing through his hands. He could feel tears running from his eyes and he hated them.
He hated everyone!
How dare they try and do this to him...!
He sank to the ground, feeling tears falling from his eyes and his chest heaving, but no audible sound coming from his body. Silently sobbing...
He hated people...he hated himself...
He never wanted to deal with people again...it hurt so badly...
It hurt so much less then dealing with the pain that was self-inflicted...
He narrowed his eyes, causing tears to fall faster. He curled his knees to his chest and hugged them with his slashed arms, ignoring the pain as he tried to silence his own sobbing. He gasped for breath.
Why? Why was it wrong?
He wasn't trying to kill himself...he wasn't trying to do that...he just didn't want to deal with other people...he didn't want to hurt himself, but he was driven to it...he had to drive them away and they simply wouldn't listen...! He had to do SOMEthing to show them that he was serious...
He had to do SOMEthing...
For a few days of stinging pain no one would ever bother him again...what could be wrong with that? There were no disadvantages...
He ripped a thorn from his upper arm and threw it into the grass angrily, noting the blood that ran down his arm. Unlike the other thorns that had scratched, that one had pierced. He noted that a new flow of blood was beginning, a tiny trickle that increased everytime his heart beat. He touched his fingers to it, noting the warmth and thickness of his own blood...
He had to do something to make them leave him alone....
He buried his hands in his hair.
He wanted to be ALONE! He didn't want to deal with people always judging him and shouting at him. He didn't want to deal with other people trying to make him someone else. He never wanted to see another person again...
But that wasn't true...he cared about them, he knew he did. He knew that it was comforting to know that there was someone to come home to...he knew that he wanted some human contact...
But not if it was like this...
Not if he had to suffer so much for a few moments of happiness...
What was it all for?
What was the point?
Why was he even here?
He ran his fingers down his face and felt it leaving marks.
Angrily he jabbed his fingers at the wound on his arm and streaked it under his eyes.
You've made me cry blood...He heard a strange voice in his head, it must have been his own, speak silently. You've made me cry blood, my own, and you've made me try and find out who I am in the worst way possible...this is your fault.
He turned towards the house.
He was torn.
He wanted to show them that he was unhappy. But he didn't want to have to deal with the others yet...He didn't want to worry them and he knew they wouldn't understand. He knew that no one would understand how he felt. Why should he try and tell them if they would all react like Colt?
They'd say he was weak for doing this to himself...
Weak? They called him weak, but let them try and do this to themselves. Let THEM tear into their own flesh and laugh. Let them watch themselves bleed. Then they can call him weak. They can't call him weak if they don't know.
He felt a rushing pounding in his ears and he closed his eyes, hoping to stop the insistant noise. He pressed his hands to his head again, feeling his hair stick to the liquid on his hands.
The noise...!
It never stopped...voices always clawing at him, always screaming and shouting and crying and demanding his attention that he could never give...
Something that wanted something he didn't have...
He couldn't live like this...
He was vaguely aware of another thorn being in his hand.
You have to kill the noise! The voice in his head shouted at him. You have to kill the pollution!
THE POLLUTION!
Drak wasn't sure whether or not he spoke the last exclamation out loud, but that was the last thing he heard for a while as he felt the thorn ripping into his body again and he mercifully didn't remember a single thing after that for quite some time.

~~~

Rough choking sobs tore their way through his injured throat as Drak stumbled around the back of house, trying to force his malfunctioning leg to work. He could feel pain rising in his chest, but not from what he had done to himself.
"What am I doing...?" The words were weak and flitted away from him like birds after they escaped his mouth.
The bitter taste of his blood case causing him to cough and whimper with pain. He continued to limp his way forward. He had felt rage for a few moments, a few seconds. Now he had hurt someone that he normally would care about. He hadn't wanted to do that...Monty was someone that he knew. Monty was generally a nice person...
So was Colt...
So was everyone else in the house...
Why was he doing this to them?
He spotted something bright green protruding from the back of the house. He stumbled towards it gratefully, finding it to be what he had wanted. A hose.
Why had he hurt himself...?
He turned the tap on and let the water run for a few moments. He turned it on his feet first, leaving the spray unaltered. He didn't want to sting himself with water at the moment...
He had done something wrong...Monty was right...
He stared at the scar on his wrist with anger. Why had he done something so stupid? It had accomplished nothing! It only hurt the people that he knew and was only causing him guilt...he didn't want to hurt them...
He just...
He felt a wave of sadness wash over his being, causing him to fall to his knees, the water splashing across his chest. He gasped involuntarily as the icy liquid soaked through his shirt. He watched as the water running from him became a rusty tint.
He didn't want...to be like this...
Why had he done this to himself...? He had no reason...none that he could remember...because he wanted to be alone...?
He laughed, choking as he did so. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to be cursed to the darkness anymore. He didn't want to have people ignore him...he didn't want people to stop caring about him...he was so lonely...the hurt in his chest was loneliness and guilty because he was hurting people that he loved...
You're a fool.
The voice must have been his own.
Only a few paltry hours ago you were whimpering about how you wanted to be left alone...but now you want to have people help you? Was all this just a plea for attention?
"No..." He coughed violently and the water sprayed on his left arm.
You just want attention...you felt ignored, so you wanted people to look at you...well, they're looking at you now, aren't they? They're looking at you and they don't like what they see. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? That's what you wanted, to have people hate you so that you wouldn't have to deal with them. Well, guess what. Having people hate you is like having people love you. They STILL pay attention to you.
"Don't...talk to me..."
You're talking to yourself.
Drak felt the realization that perhaps he HAD done this as a desperate plea for attention and began to hate himself for it. He resorted to something so evil, so painful, so POINTLESS for attention!? Like some starved child? Like some stray dog? He wanted attention so he slashed up the only thing that people cared about?
"No! That can't be true!" Drak coughed violently as his blood mixed with his air. His lungs continued to use their inherent reflex to force the liquid away while Drak lay on the ground, clutching his chest and wishing to any god there was that the pain would stop.
Soon the fit passed and he was able to sit up again. He grabbed the hose in his hand.
He stared at his left arm.
DARKNESS.
THAT'S what you wrote? That means even less then what you previously wrote. What are you trying to accomplish? This will get you nothing.
"I didn't!...I didn't do this for attention!" Drak forced away his coughing by swallowing it, an extremely uncomfortable behavior. "I don't want attention! I want to know who I am!"
You're a LIAR.
Drak pressed his thumb over the nozzle of the hose and watched the spray spread and gently mist the flowers nearby. He then turned it on himself, trying to stop from crying out at the stinging pain of the water flying against him.
Drak couldn't keep it up for more then a few seconds. He dropped the hose and began to cry pitifully, not sure of what he could do anymore.