Hard to pick from all that they made me endure in becoming a living weapon. The one on one duel where I got stabbed in the intestines was most likely the most painful
trigger warnings: self harm, depression ( does get graphic )
Despite the weather truly warming up, Felix was in long sleeves and the heat was making him irritable. He was tired a lot and if things didn’t go seamlessly, he got angry. The same level of anger that got him hospitalized. Of course, it passed eventually because he’d been brainwashed in therapy. He can cope and realize these things pass. Some kid knocking over his books on purpose; whatever, it was a one time thing, the moment passed. He didn’t get to eat at lunch; whatever, it was a one time thing, the moment passed. He was getting good after a half of a year in therapy where he learned not to hold every moment as if it were life or death. However, some cases weren’t as easy to drag himself out of and with the heat and his anger and the bad day he had on top of things, he easily forgot there was no need to drown in his misery.
It took a lot of strength to get through the school day. It seemed every single class had something new that might be minor to some people, but the most minor inconveniences were sometimes earth-shattering to Felix, despite the front he put up of not caring. Today was a particularly bad day and he already excused himself from second to last period four times before the teacher told him to take the rest of the class to calm down.
Typically Felix walked around the school twice to keep his surroundings changing as he calms down before he can sit still. And of course, why break tradition? Except this time, he was much more focused on his phone. He was constantly refreshing his email inbox, and nothing popping up. He would’ve been shocked if this hadn’t been the case for the passed nine years, but for some reason it was hitting hard this time. This morning (somewhat after midnight) he sent his mom an e-mail yet again, and it was full of such important information. Dreams he had in the nights of the passed week, feelings he had developing, questions any boy would be asking his mother at this age (how do I get a job, where do I start looking for college, etc). But this time, he actually dove deeper into it for the first time and asked her why she left, where she was, if she was even proud of who he’d become, if she missed him, all of it. Somewhere deep in his heart he felt like she was getting them and was too scared to reply. Or she didn’t know how, because they were mostly just childish ramblings on a screen. But this was important and if she was reading it, she had cause to answer this time. Fast forward after his sleep and school day, there was still nothing in his inbox. And it filled his chest with warm anger. He preferred warm anger. He could control his warm anger. When things were physical with his father, it was more of a cold anger, where he felt nothing and could go and go and go until he passed out with no flinching because he was just so angry.
But for the first time, Felix was angry with his mother. He knew he grew up without a mom, that was irrefutable. But he always thought she was around, like a ghost who was alive. No impact, but knew what was going on and had an eye on the place just in case. But the deafening silence from no emails back set a fire off in his chest that started out warm and slowly froze over into a cold anger the more he refreshed the app. He got tunnel vision and could feel his muscles tightening up and his heart rate quicken. His feet changed without his notice, his path rerouting to the bathroom. He felt so incredibly stupid. He felt insignificant, like he didn’t matter to his own mother, that he thought he genuinely mattered to.
The curly haired boy barges into the bathroom that was usually empty, where there was a freshman at a urinal. He seemed surprised, they both didn’t expect to see the other so suddenly. Felix stares at him for a moment before blinking to snap out of it, then rushing himself into a stall. The kid hurried along, though him washing his hands felt like ages to Felix. Once he was sure he was alone, Felix dug in his jeans for a pencil sharpener and a pocket screwdriver. He was running on autopilot, barely in control of his hands. They were just doing it, like he was watching a movie. He unscrews the blade, dropping the plastic case into his lap, and wipes off any residue that may be on it. His jaw was clenched, his eyes barely tearing up. He was so mad and he wanted to stop feeling emotions. Felix then tugs the right sleeve of his flannel up, taking a small bit of the inside of his cheek and biting hard as he made the first cut. It lay asymmetrical with whatever crisscrossed design was already sketched white into his skin. It hurt, the ripping of the skin, but it felt like home to him. Normally, one slice was enough to numb his mind, but he was still angry. So he kept cutting until his fury subsided.
He used self harm as a coping method, as everyone else did. Some people use it to put a physical pain to an emotional pain. Some people use it as a reminder that they’re alive. Some people use it as a cry for help. Felix did it to direct his brain to physical pain away from emotional pain. In reality, he was desperate for help and it was his biggest fear. When he sees the tiny red gashes on his forearm, it sends the panic to his brain that he has a physical ailment that needs attending to. But he wasn’t at that point yet. He felt it, but he felt the hatred more. It was morphing from his mother to him.
She left you, she’s an awful mother.
She deserves to rot alone.
She doesn’t deserve happiness.
She didn’t have it in her to be a mother and ran away like a coward.
She didn’t have it in her to be a mother to you.
She didn’t want to deal with all of your problems.
She probably hated every email you sent her.
Why would you even bother sending them, you’re not worth her time.
You aren’t worth anyone’s time.
You should’ve stayed in that hospital, everyone would’ve forgotten about you.
You’ll die alone.
Boys don’t cut themselves, you failure.
You’re ugly.
Worthless.
Fat.
Stupid.
Sick.
Psychotic.
He was crying at his point, that was a given. Normally he doesn’t cry, he’s doing it to run away from his feelings. But his mind was evil to him and making him take all of this out on his body. It lost its pain by now, he was just quietly sobbing over the realization of the truth in his words. He genuinely didn’t know how safe he’d be before his phone went off from a dumb upload notification from YouTube, where he saw the time. If it hadn’t have gone off, would he have kept going until it was too late? He wasn’t covered in blood but the most times he’d ever cut himself before this was six, and now there were too many to count, maybe close to twenty. Some long, some fat, some barely there. It didn’t matter now, there was seven minutes until the bell would ring, where the kids would be let loose in the halls, stopping into the bathroom between classes. He had to work fast.
He shoves the blade, case, and screwdriver back into his front pocket, barely wiping his eyes on his sleeve. After another second of making sure no one had entered, he stepped out of the stall and did his best to clean the wounds quickly with the shitty water at Northlake High. He knew there was enough blood that would seep through his shirt, so he grabbed four paper towels from the dispenser and wrapped his arm in them before pulling the sleeve back down and carefully buttoning it to avoid them coming loose. The last thing he wanted was someone catching onto him, reporting him, having him sent away again. All he wanted to do was to push everyone away again, anyways. His thoughts were right, no one wanted or needed him around, regardless, and he wanted to run away and never look back.
The bell rang as he was just getting the bleeding to slow, or so it looked like. He couldn’t really tell. Before anyone could bump into him, Felix held his arm face inwards to his stomach, his free hand clutching the strap of his backpack as he opened the door, entering the halls of the school once more as if nothing had happened. No one would notice, no one would care, he didn’t matter. He was a passing face in the crowd, no one would be able to tell he was just ripping himself to shreds, adding new scars to the collection.
—torture me: write a drabble about your character torturing mine or vise versa.
it’s painful to breathe—an ache settling deep within the hallow of jiyeon’s chest. her body throbs against the cool tile flooring, and she lets it, far too concerned with catching her breath to even mind the pain as it spreads through every inch of her. like a tide, it washes in and sweeps her under; it’s all she can think about, as it suffocates her like hands against her throat.
it’s only when she arises from the haze does she realize it’s no tide pulling her in, or any amount of water that’s choking her lifeless. it’s his hands, coiled around the thin frame of jiyeon’s throat.
he stands over her, a knee pressed against each of her sides, bone pressing into the vulnerable spot, digging deeper and deeper into her skin. she can feel her organs protest at the movements and she cries out. but that only earns her another squeeze, another warning as the man before her growls once more.
“does it hurt, jiyeon?” he leans into her, he brings his face close to hers and lets his eyes meet hers. she sees them flicker, a sea of clouded emotions that pull her in once more. she’s under, she can’t breathe and she can’t struggle. she can only watch as his dark pools envelope her and his sadistic smile twists its way into her nightmares.
the tears are sudden, they fall in small streams down her cheeks. they dirty his hands, staining them with salt streaks. she tries to hiccup, tries to catch her breath, but his fingers dig further into her wind pipe and she chokes once more. woohyun laughs, a throaty sound that once brought a smile to her lips. now it makes her shiver and shake beneath his straddle and his choke.
she wanted out. she wanted away from here, away from him.
“w-woohyun..”
he doesn’t mind her, he only looks down upon her and lets the smirk settle deep into the features of his lips. “don’t you understand, jiyeon? this is how it feels when you leave me. this is what you do to me.” he is calm. far too calm—voice unrippled and undisturbed. she wonders if the sound of his silk will haunt her waking moments forever.
if she has any left.
“im just punishing you—training my little pup so she understands the rules.”
and then he lets go and the world is lifted from her shoulders. she cries more, loose and sloppy tears that mark her cheeks and leave her eyes swollen and lined with red. her shoulders shake and her fingers tremble, unsteady as they find her throat. they slide into the imprints on her skin, colorations he’s left behind. she wonders how dark the bruises will become.
jiyeon flinches when his hands touch her once more, settling on her shoulders and pulling her up from the ground. she meets his chest and his arms snake around her form. they squeeze her, a comforting gesture in any other circumstance but now it only fills jiyeon with unease. she feels smothered all over again.
“its okay, jiyeon.” fingers find her hair, they stroke her loose locks and pull on tangled knots. “i still love you. ill always love you—even when you cause me pain. and you,” he pulls away to offer her a smile. but it’s not another saccharine grin. its twisted, like a tree’s who’s branches reached too far into the sky—kissed and distorted by lightning. and she can’t help but cry some more. “and you will always love me, right?”
The winter of 1939-1940 in Finland was exceptionally cold. In January, temperatures dropped below -40° in some places. Frostbite was a constant threat, and the corpses of soldiers killed in battle froze solid, often in eerie poses. This January 31, 1940 photo shows a frozen dead Russian soldier, his face, hands and clothing covered with a dusting of snow. After 105 days, the Finns and Russians signed a peace treaty, allowing Finland to retain sovereignty, while it ceded 11 percent of its territory to the Soviets. (LOC)
Twenty-six years have passed since India’s worst industrial catastrophe injured 558,125 people and killed as many as 15,000. Because safety standards and maintenance procedures had been ignored at the Union Carbide India Limited (UCIL) pesticide plant in Bhopal, a leak of methyl isocyanate gas and other chemicals triggered a massive environmental and human disaster. Photographer Pablo Bartholomew rushed to document the catastrophe. He came across a man who was burying a child.
This is a video taken sometime in the past few days (probably yesterday) showing the bodies of dead inmates from al-Taji prison in Iraq scattered around and thrown somewhere in the vicinity of the prison as if they were some kind of infected filthy animals. Why would we be surprised? A government that doesn't respect your humanity when you are alive, will never do when you are a rotting body.
