Disgusting, Origin of Pain
Rating: M
Pairing: OCxOC (Unnamed)
Trigger Warnings: Blood, pain, depression, coping, gore, sexual implications, sexual situations, self harm, most likely more than I can name
“Who knows? Only time will tell.”
Unfamiliar voices. Unfamiliar ceilings. An alien setting, stark white and devoid of emotion to his mind. He gazed over the walls, eyes glazed over from the use of narcotics earlier, having gone through intubation just recently, which was understandably a step up from his tracheosectomy. Either way, he was confined, nailed down to the sickeningly white bed with bracers.
“I think he already knows.”
Oh, he did indeed know. There was certain numbness in his right arm, or rather, where his right arm SHOULD be. All that was left now was faint reminders, a phantom pain of what it used to be. That arm meant so much to him; it was his life up until that point, and would’ve been his career, had that car not taken the turn it did. Because of the incompetence of that fucking drunkard, he was spread prostate in the cold room, veiled only in the thinnest of sheets for a false warmth, and stuck with tubes and various other foreign objects to keep his miserable heart beating.
People came by to check him often, most just previous classmates from before the accident. His old flame came by, from before his days of sexual experimentation, before he realized who his true love was. She arrived the day he was taken in, wearing a plain shirt and biker shorts, meaning she came just as soon as she heard. Soon enough, his heart’s completer made his advent, short black hair and colorful getup a graceful reprieve from the drab hospital. He leaned in and kissed him, whispering that he would do anything to keep him sane and safe. At least some people cared. Some people clearly did not want anything to do with him besides claiming that they’ve made conversation with an explosion survivor. But how much survived was up for debate.
The event traumatized him. His vehicular anxiety was enough for him to kill a person, but now that he’s seen the full extent of the wreckage, there was no way he was ever stepping near a car again. Blond hair was literally shocked white, skin paling out and eyes being dyed from deep ocean azure to bright blue, completing his physical signs of the trauma. Mental strains were much worse.
“He used to create the most wonderful artwork.”
“I know. He even published a manga! Too bad he’ll never finish it…”
The stump of his right arm pulsated as these words were spoken, a feeling of utter despair and hatred rising in his gut. The physical effects of this aside from his arm, he could deal with. After all, he wouldn’t need that leg anyways. But it was instead the fact that a story will be left unfinished, that there would never be any resolution for the tale he’s woven that crushed him. No resolution, would he end up the same?
“Shut up,” he muttered under the whirring of machines. They would never hear him, never hear the defeat and grief in his voice. He wouldn’t let them drink in his defeat, it was against what he taught himself.
He was outfitted with mechanical replacements a few weeks later, his body now in much better working condition. The bleeding had stopped, to an extent, and medication was needed to keep the wounds from reopening and thoughts of suicide in the future. In essence, he was an artificial life hanging by a thread, true emotions to never be seen by those on the outside of his fragile heart.
His lover stopped by his house frequently, feeding his fish and himself, making sure to take the utmost care when lifting him to bed or onto the couch or wherever he was staying. The other knew full well he could carry out these actions on his own, but never stopped him from doing it. It made him feel wanted, loved by someone in this world, someone that loved him beyond his achievements. They constantly shared moments of near-intimacy, the common nose-bump, the confident kiss, and the increasingly rare full moment. He didn’t want the victim to break, and the victim didn’t want to be broken. In turn, he felt more like a doll in these much closer times, much less human than he already was. Those damned limbs made it worse.
It was dehumanizing, to have a whirring machine physically and mentally attached to you. The gears and motors were constantly responding to his thoughts, reacting as a hand normally would. In fact, the movements were nearly identical to those of a normal hand, not counting the occasional sounds and jerking movements it made. The doctors even said someday artificial skin would be implemented on it to make it seem normal to the outside world.
He needed a natural hand. He never needed more secrets to hide. He was becoming a lab rat for the newest technology of the day, just another patient to stick things into. The doctors, whenever they stopped by, would greet him with smiles on their face, reminding him of how a scientist could get attached to a lab rat or a sort of eldritch abomination when working with it every day.
There was no pleasure left in his life, now that he felt so fragile to everything, mentally and physically. His right hand, his dominant hand, was absent. No artificial pleasure wrought of vigorous stroking or true pleasure of lending a hand to his partner. Daily activities became a struggle as he found himself becoming less and less useful. He started to revert to means of self-harm, means he hasn’t resorted to since before discovering his talent in artwork.
It began as small things, such as self-inflicted bruises and cuts on what was left of his body. He would make it seem like an accident when his partner was around, not wishing to worry the last thing in his life that was worth living for.
It escalated with increasing frequency to stabbing himself with his pen nibs, peeling back layers of skin to reveal what was underneath. Just what made him so interesting to doctors? He was a normal human, aside from some deep-set battle scars and bitter loneliness. He reveled in this act, cutting deep enough to see into what he was, letting the blood flow free as he widened the cut, even daring to place a finger into it. The gash on his leg was large enough for it now, and he dipped his artificial hand in it, staining it red. Two fingers felt around inside his skin, poking about at the layers of dermis and drinking in the alien tone of the inner workings of himself.
The feeling on his hand was not unlike what it felt like when inside his significant other, feeling around the warm tissues. Except there was no intimacy this time. He was alone, blood dripping on him, not fluids of painless origin. This never stopped a moan escaping his lips. He knew it; he was too far gone to be considered sane. The other would run into the room wondering what he was missing, and would be treated to this sight…
