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The sun had set hours ago.
A window was cracked open. The sky outside was dark, the world quiet, and Sword was alone. He simply listened as a silent wind whistled from outdoors, past his home. The sound was solemn, droning on, but its mere presence was profound. Soft, unchanging, and monotonous.
Venomshank was asleep in another room; nothing stirred in the house except for Sword.
The silence was deafening.
There he idled, unmoving, his jagged back curved against the side of his bed, his wings drooped lazily at his sides. His legs were curled up to his chest, arms draped over his knees, just staring at the plumage on his forearms. However, he had to strain his eyes to see. He was enveloped in darkness, pressing against him at all sides, apart from the faint milky light trickling in from the door left ajar.
How had he gotten here?
Sword did not ponder the thought for long. It slipped from his head and sank away, like a leaf through a stream. Static filled his brain, just for a quiet, slight, kindling moment. He found himself lifting his gaze to a murky wall in front of him.
He straightened his back and shook his head. He knew it was late, he knew he was in his bedroom, he knew he should be asleep, and he knew that he certainly wasn’t. But it was a weekend, right? He could go to sleep whenever he liked.
He knew it wasn’t good for him. He knew it reinforced bad habits. He knew it would mess up his sleep schedule, give him less time during the day, and give him less energy when he had to wake up at a reasonable hour for school.
But he was awake anyway.
Shoot.
And a simple train of thought would cause him to spiral.
He knew that staying up would come to bite him in the ass the next morning. He knew when something had to be done, yet the thought would just pass him by without infiltrating his cerebration whatsoever. Sometimes it would seem like his thoughts were screaming at him: Do something! Get up! You have work to do! It’s due tomorrow, you’re running out of time! Don’t you care? Don’t you want to succeed? Don’t you want to live life? Why are you so insistent on doing nothing? Are you just fucking useless? Yet nothing fazed him. No thought, no matter how loud, made him feel anything.
Sometimes he wondered if he was nothing more than lazy.
That seemed like a reasonable explanation. Besides, he did nothing all day, and he never knew why. These things were important to him; deep down, he really wanted to do the things he loved, do the things he had to do, to achieve and explore and learn new things, prepare for his future, and carry out basic necessities.
But he didn’t feel anything.
The only thing he felt the urge to do was nothing. He watched deadlines fly by like clouds in the sky. And somehow he was indifferent, still.
He drifted his gaze back to his arms, to that beautiful plentitude of golden brown feathers. Somewhere in between the time he had zoned out, the bedroom door to his left had cracked open a little wider, allowing more light to cascade over his collective plumage. He could feel a soft breeze from an open window he saw across the house wash over him. Allowing his mind to settle momentarily, he ran his fingers over the silky ruffles on his skin, catching an individual feather between his index finger and thumb. He took note of the follicle where it met the flesh, where the calamus pierced the soft layer of skin, and plucked it free. He felt a sharp pinch, but nothing more. Satisfied, he discarded the rogue feather to his side and searched for a new one, preferably premature. He let his mind wander, hoping a burst of rage would come and motivate him to pull harder and elicit more pain. He did this often when he was upset.
While Sword was searching, he took notice of the other characteristics of his body. Like how the rows of feathers did a poor job covering up the faded cuts on his arm. Not that they were noticeable, anyway. But if you were looking for them, you’d be able to find them. Sword was always looking for them. No matter how small, they brought him comfort. Two little puckered, raised scars always caught his eye; those were his particular favourites. Pathetic, he knew. He couldn’t even cut himself properly. What was he afraid of? What was his problem? He was already terrible at everything, and he couldn’t even hate himself for it.
Venomshank grew distrustful of Sword when he found his son's scars shortly after he had inflicted them. Another thing about Sword: he was a terrible, terrible liar. And even worse at hiding things. Venom started doing check-ins after that. Like I’m a child, Sword had thought. But he knew that his mentor wouldn’t treat him like a child if he hadn’t been acting like one in the first place.
Long story short, Sword had to resort to other forms of self-punishment. Things that would hurt, but wouldn’t leave a noticeable scar. It sucked, but he supposed it was his fault.
What he was punishing himself for, though, he didn’t always know.
Sometimes it was just something he did.
He resented the fact that he didn’t have the time to give himself a few permanent scars, ones that cut exceptionally deep.
Down to the fat, maybe. That would last forever, right?
Sword harshly tore out three feathers simultaneously. Heat flickered under his skin.
He held them up to the doorway's gleam and admired the golden glow, turning them between his fingers so the light would hit the smooth vanes at different angles. Cool. He held them closer to his face, awestruck. The colours are real pretty. With that final thought, he gently placed the three feathers on the floor to his right.
The peace was fleeting. His mind found its way back to its previous train of thought, and he was running his hand over his forearm again, lightly tugging at certain feathers. Sword knew time was running out for him. Days flew by, and his life remained pitifully obsolete.
Useless, Sword thought, digging his talons into his skin. He was careful to elicit as much pain as possible without drawing blood.
He was so tired, but tired of what? He didn’t do anything. He just slacked off and watched life dwindle away, never feeling the initiative to take action. Sword hated telling people he was tired, even though that’s how he felt: so tired. Because nothing in the world could possibly be wearing him out. He hated himself for feeling exhausted every day, because there was still so much to do, and he knew he could do it. He knew he had the energy, time, and ability to do all of the things that had been weighing down his To-Do list for months, so why couldn’t he? Why did he feel like there was a rock-hard barrier between him and getting basic tasks done?
Plink! Sword ripped out a feather and angrily threw it into the air beside him.
Whatever it was, it only made Venomshank hate him. Sword had begun to lose count of how many times his progenitor had begged him to do simple run-of-the-mill things that every other Inphernal seemed perfectly capable of doing. One of the few people in the world who cared for Sword was disappointed in him.
Pluck! Another feather was yanked from his skin.
Sword tossed it to the side, leaning his head back against the side rail of his bed and closing his eyes.
He hadn’t a clue what caused him to ruminate that night.
Perhaps it was because he had school in a day, and he really did not want to go.
He concluded that was likely the root of the problem.
Sword had been trying to forget about school during the weekend, but now that he had remembered, all the unpleasant memories came flooding back.
Everything terrible about high school.
University research. Deadlines. Lunch period. Free-choice seating. Finding a work partner. Feeling like everyone on campus hates you. Then getting out and having to work four more hours after it’s over.
He didn’t even have the energy to groan out loud. Sword hated school and work so much that it hurt. It was excruciating, and he had nearly no one to cheer him up throughout the day. Sword had friends, of course, but it was complicated. He never felt like he mattered to them in the long run.
I’m just a plan B.
Something ached deep inside Sword’s chest.
The kind of ache that only grew and grew and never truly left.
He opened his eyes, looked down, and picked at another feather, pulling it out with ease. It didn’t hurt as he wanted it to. Sword lazily threw it in a random direction with no regard for where it might have landed.
He drew into himself a little tighter, pulling his knees closer to his abdomen. He allowed himself to sit in pure, interrupted silence, slowing his thoughts to a halt.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he ducked his head. He parted his lips and took a few steady breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, feeling his chest expand and constrict gracefully. He unfurled his wings, stretching them out as wide as possible, before gently pulling them back to his sides, soothing the tension he hadn’t even realized was there.
Sword remembered doing something similar when he was much younger. He remembered the countless dismal nights in the house, all alone, trying to stand straight and tall while opening up his body, puffing his chest out like a fool, telling himself to remain as sturdy as a mountain, to stay strong, disregarding the tears pooling in his eyes and the stinging in his nostrils. He would take heaving breaths in and out until his whole body rattled and he choked on his sobs, until he was physically unable to wipe the tears from his eyes before they fell from his face. Stay strong, he told himself, but the thought would shrivel and die, like a match burning down to the base.
The memory shattered something inside him, something childish and pure.
It dawned on him that now, years later, he sat in his room as he did long ago, as if untouched by time. Like nothing had changed.
Does it ever get better?
The thought emerged silently, like an offering. Flickering in and out of his head like a dying light. It was not a striking thought; it was not shocking to Sword; just there.
After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d considered this.
Sword tensed his shoulders and rubbed his arms, feeling a lump settle in his throat. It had been years. He’d been mentally volatile for years, but that’s not what hurt the most. It was the countless times his emotional state fluctuated, providing him the wishful possibility that everything would be okay, before prying the hope from his fingertips. The cycle repeated. He felt that he was going to get better, that things were finally going to change, before falling straight into another ditch. It never truly changed. He never truly healed. For six years, nothing had gotten better.
Sword physically flinched. Don’t think like that, Sword. You’re never going to recover if you think like that.
Well, that was how it felt. He couldn’t help feeling that way. Sword took a shaky breath, trying to swallow the tight feeling in his throat.
Sword subconsciously dug his fingers into his tricep. He knew he was growing as a person, that he was changing. He knew, he knew very well. He could see his improvement. He just didn’t know when it was all going to end, or if it ever would.
Sword retracted inward ever further, tightening his falciform grip on his arm. He supposed that the only way to know for sure was to wait, to push on further.
But how long had he been waiting? How long had he been fighting for his life?
What if he didn’t have to?
Sword untensed, his fingers flattening out against his arm, rubbing soothing circles on his skin with his thumb. He turned his body to the left so he could face the stream of hollow light pouring in from the crack in his bedroom door. He let the thought swim in his mind.
What if I ended it all?
Everything hurt, all too much and all too often. All he wanted was a break: a break from life, from school, from himself.
Sword gently shut his eyes, wrapping his arms around his chest so that he could feel it rise and fall, counting the breaths. A bittersweet, tranquil feeling overcame him.
Perhaps surrender wasn’t such a bad idea.
He’d considered it before, and it wasn’t just his second or third time. It was a plan that was guaranteed to work, given the circumstances. If he were dead, he wouldn’t have mortal issues to worry about or a self to hate. It was as simple as that.
What did he have to live for, anyway?
Everything went blank in Sword’s mind.
He didn’t have an immediate answer. Hell, he didn’t have one at all.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Sword had to live to see himself graduate. He still had things on his bucket list. Plus, it would be cruel to leave Venomshank all alone. He probably needed to get a dog once he moved out, too.
But none of those things felt as important when every day felt the way it did.
One of Sword’s fingers found its way back to the feathers on his arms, teasing the skin.
He supposed that he was most concerned for Venomshank’s well-being. Sword’s friends would likely forget about his death in a week. As for Venomshank . . . Sword was all he had. Living on the edge of Crossroads, closed off from the world, it was just them.
Sword felt a pang of guilt. He knew how much Venomshank loved him; he’d seen it. Venomshank did so much for Sword, and he never returned the favour. Such a foolish, worthless child he was. Sword screwed his eyes shut as poison seeped into his heart, sucking the air from his lungs. His guardian gave him everything: he trained him, raised him, gave him a home, gave him all the advice he’d ever need, and loved him endlessly. Sword knew that if he committed suicide, it would absolutely destroy his mentor.
I guess I’m only living to keep someone else from falling apart.
Sword wrenched out one final feather. It was presumably premature and excessively stubborn compared to the rest, not leaving without a fight and brushing past his nerves. Affliction coursed through his veins in the affected area.
But it was as if he didn't feel anything at all.
Not a thought was in his head.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what he was feeling. It didn't matter, anyway. He knew one thing was true.
I’ll have to think more about it tomorrow.