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The shoddily bandaged wounds stung. She let out a pained exhale. She really didn't deserve any of this. None of the-
“Scarlie?” Her spiraling thoughts were cut off by a hand waving in front of her face. “Spacing out again? I swear you worry me sometimes” Oddly matter of fact.
“Sor—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I’m fine, dummy.” No bite to her words, just a hollow effigy of what they used to be. She really wonders why her girlfriend still loves her. Somebody like her—She sighed heavily.
Vodka looked at her worried.
“You can talk to me anytime. I won’t judge you” Worry radiated out from Vodka. Scarlet’s bandages itched. “I just don’t want you to be struggling on your own, okay?” She huffed. “I want to kick your ass fair and square” She gave a tentative and slightly cocky smirk.
“I’m fine, and besides I am totally better than you” Worthless lies. She felt her bandages tug awkwardly as she did her over-the-top motions. “So don’t let your guard down just because your girlfriend’s in a rut!” Why are you even still around? “Got it!?” As much as her voice gave her some semblance of bravado, her tail hanging straight down and her ears pinned down told the complete opposite, but either way, the message was clear.
Vodka didn’t comment.
Scarlet knew that was for the better.
The thought of talking to her girlfriend about it—About the habit she’s had for goddesses-know-how-long, about how she had to teach herself how to treat her own wounds, how much it all hurts… But… she knew that she’d just burden Vodka. Vodka didn’t need to know. It would only hurt, it would only make her sad, it would only bring pity.
So she let herself suffer in silence. Just like how she always has, letting it quietly build up.
And so the days ticked by. Her head is a mess, coming out of two races where she performed abysmally and with her academics flagging. Her carefully crafted facade of a perfect honors student—of somebody who actually had any sort of meaningful direction in her life, was at risk of breaking open. Her goal is meaningless, she knows that damn well. She can barely even look at herself in the mirror anymore.
She didn’t want to feel this way anymore. The old and still-healing wounds on her legs reminded her of that. And the sickening hankering and feeling under her skin didn’t falter.
All of it was too much—her having to hide bloodied bandages and clothing from Vodka, the pain whenever her shoddily applied bandages rubbed wrong, all of it. And yet, she eyed that drawer. The one where she hid the blue and yellow pocket knife. She promised herself she would stop that. She promised herself that she wouldn’t do it anymore.
She wondered if Vodka would even still love her if she found out about this habit or its resurgence. If she found out that she hid it from her for so long, if she found out about the countless scars. She doesn’t entertain the thought any further. Vodka’s training late today, she won’t find out. She won’t find out that her girlfriend is actually a self-destructive wreck as well.
And so, she rested her ankle on her knee, letting her have easy access to the minefield of scars and healing wounds of her inner thigh. She flicked open the pocket knife.
She dragged it across, beads of blood in the wake of the knife. Once again, she returned the knife to skin, letting out a pained exhale, before loudly hissing as the path crossed a still healing wound. Embittered words dripped out of her mouth, “useless, worthless, useless” over and over, like a hate-filled mantra. Again. She tells herself she deserves it. The agony dulled her mind. She tells herself she deserves this. Again. She cut across the fresh wound, loudly gasping from the stinging pain. Her hand was trembling. She’s making a mess, she knows that. Again. She began once more, letting the path cross barely healed cuts—a hand grabbed her wrist, trapping it in place and killing all forward motion it had, before peeling it away from her thigh. All followed by a horrified “Scarlet!?” from the last person she wanted to hear it from.
Her body locked up. She tilted her head upwards, her gaze meeting her roommate’s. She was the last person who needed to find out about this, as now that she knows, she’ll see her as the truly fetid thing she is. She’ll always be seen as lesser. She’ll be seen as the good-for-nothing that she is.
Panic settled in. Her breath hitched. The knife loudly clattered to the ground. She physically cannot even try to formulate some sort of response. She stares up and past Vodka. She wants to vomit. She wants to scream.
“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Vodka’s clearly panicking as well. She doesn’t let go of Scarlet’s wrist. “I–uh–just follow me, alright!” She watched as Vodka counted down with her free hand and while doing exaggerated breathing motions alongside that.
It took several moments, but soon, Scarlet's breathing slowed down to something manageable. The wounds still sting and burn even if the flow of blood has been somewhat stanched by time.
She let Vodka drag her to the bathroom, where a first-aid kit sits under the sink.
“I’m not going to ask about why you have been doing that” Vodka started. “I’m just going to patch you up, okay?” The fear in her voice is completely lost on Scarlet.
She gave her a weak nod to continue.
“Alright, can you move your leg so I can like… get to the cuts?” Scarlet did as she was asked. Vodka stared at the cuts in shock and awe, the bright lighting of the bathroom revealing the severity of the issue. She wanted to vomit. “G–goddesses…” She sucked in a deep breath before continuing, voice a bit lower. “I’m going to clean the wounds. This will hurt, so just give me a nod when you are ready” She waited for a response as she poured rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball. Once the all clear was given, she counted down. “Alright. Three, two, one.”
It stung. Scarlet forced out an agonized exhale through gritted teeth as the wet cotton ball was dabbed on her wounds.
“You’re doing good, you’re doing good” And Vodka’s voice is the sole thing she can hold onto in the drowning waters. Even as Vodka rummaged through the kit, her presence helped her. “This will feel a bit weird but it’ll help the gauze not stick to them. Ready?”
Another nod. The cream stung whenever it hit her wounds. She felt Vodka place a decently sized piece of gauze over her fresh and still healing wounds.
In any other situation, the two would have been a blushing mess—only if Vodka wasn’t absolutely terrified about Scarlet’s wellbeing.
“Any preference?” She held up two types of compression bandages. One that’s the standard white and another that is black. “I—I uhm… think the black ones are a bit cooler…” She let out a nervous chuckle, knowing her attempt to lighten the mood failed catastrophically. “But the white ones will be better to see if your wounds are bleeding or not” Scarlet shook her head, letting Vodka choose the white bandages.
“I should have asked this earlier, Scarlet, but do you have any more elsewhere? I won’t judge you, I promise” Her hands were trembling. Her resolve was starting to buckle under this strain.
She shook her head. She’s lying, she knows that, but she wants to spare her girlfriend the hassle of dealing even more with a mess like he—She’s pulled into a tight hug. “I’m not mad at you, Scarlie” Her voice was starting to crack. “I’m not at all. I just want you to be okay.”
Through tears and heaving breaths, Scarlet started “Ev–even though you saw that I’m just… even… E–even though I’m just… just… some b–broken mess… how can you even…”
“I’d never think less of you because of any of that.” Her voice had started to grow watery. “You’re anything but that. Y–you’re my number one, nobody else can ever be like that. Y–you aren’t broken.” She holds her tighter, refusing to let go. “You are not broken and… and you never will be.” She’s struggling, but she knows she has to be strong for Scarlet right now.
And the floodgates broke wide open. Tears spilled out like torrential downpour as Scarlet heaves and sobs. Her body shakes and trembles. She wailed, begging Vodka to not hate her, begging Vodka to stay, she cried out about agonies that Vodka hadn’t even considered, and… Vodka stayed there, gently holding her, lightly caressing her back, and really, what’s the most important, not letting her go. She’s crying too, but the feverish haze of agony the redhead is stuck within makes it all but unnoticeable.
She suddenly felt Vodka shift over, the embrace faltering. “L–let’s get off the floor, o–okay?” Vodka’s voice was choked, weak, but she continued nonetheless. She practically lifted up Scarlet. There’s no witty comments about her ‘being heavy’ or anything, just a quiet “D–do y–ou want to go to bed?” And even then, it was gentler than gentle.
Scarlet made an affirmative noise, her throat and vocal chords too clogged up to make any coherent words—let alone factoring in her mental state.
“I’m… I’m not leaving you alone tonight” Her voice was sure. Beyond sure. She lightly placed Scarlet on the bed before flopping beside her. The redhead languidly pulled Vodka into an embrace, and Vodka reciprocated tenfold, holding Scarlet close to her like she’s a stuffed animal.
And the next morning, Scarlet wakes up held tightly in Vodka’s arms. She flushed deep red. And the morning goes as it usually does, as if last night never happened, as if there is nothing wrong. Neither one of them confront it. And they don’t the day after, or the day after that.
It’s only that they do so—even if barely—once a few weeks have passed, but that’s only because it happens again. Nobody catches Scarlet this time, nobody walks in on her shredding herself to pieces again, it’s just the aftermath. She’s terrible at applying bandages to these wounds, she knows that too well. She usually just lets them dry out before covering them up in something, but she knows Vodka will be coming by soon.
The pyjama pants awkwardly stick to her wounds, lapping up whatever blood is on the surface of her thigh and slowly growing more and more crimson. It’s barely ignorable as a feeling, and the light coloring the legwear had—especially around the wounds—is quickly vanishing. She knows Vodka will notice. Not yet, it seems, but it’s just too much for her to ignore. So, she manages to work up the courage to open her mouth.
“V–Vodka?” Her voice cracked awkwardly.
“Hm? Whatsup, Scar?” She craned her head. “Something wrong?”
“I…Can you…” She huffed, mentally berating herself for choking up. “Can you… help me… uh” She turned her leg, the bloody pyjama pants sticking enough to follow with the motion. “It… it happened again” She looked away. She knew Vodka wouldn’t judge her, just like she didn’t last time, but…
“That’s…” She stared in horror once more. “I’ll get the first-aid kit. Just… make yourself comfortable, alright?”
Scarlet just sat on the side of the bed and waited for Vodka to return.
She opened the kit in a single swift motion. “When did… No, these are still…” She shook her head. “It’ll be okay, I swear.” She pulled out the bottle of disinfectant and a cotton ball. “Ready?”
Scarlet nodded. She hissed loudly just like last time. And Vodka went to work cleaning the wounds, just like she did before.
And midway through tightly wrapping the bandages, Vodka stops, looking up at Scarlet. “Scarlie, love, how…how about you call me next time when you are feeling this way. I promise, I swear…” She paused, seemingly deep in thought for a moment, before continuing “I swear on my Dad’s motorcycle, that I will be there for you. No matter when or what. Got it?”
Scarlet mumbled out a “Y–yes…” And seems to be the cue for Vodka to return to wrapping the wounds.
“This isn’t too tight, right?”
“It… it isn’t” She knows she sounds entirely defeated, not just that her voice sounds sorrowful and forlorn. She turned her head away fully after Vodka finished dressing her wounds. She can’t meet Vodka’s gaze—not right now. She just barely whispers “Th–thank you” before she is pulled into a bone-crushing embrace.
And any other time, she’d yell and holler and Vodka. Tonight, she just lets herself melt into the hug.
The next morning, neither one truly confronts it.
And this vicious cycle repeats once more. This time, Scarlet hesitates, but even then new wounds still appear. And even this time Vodka doesn’t fault Scarlet, nor does she get angry. Instead it’s just the same love and care that she’s been given over and over.
She doesn’t get why Vodka loves her the way she does, why she cares so deeply for somebody who is as much of a mess as she is, why she goes out of her way to patch her up and make sure she’s okay, why she tries and tries. She doesn’t understand it.
And the bandages don’t itch or sting this time as well. Vodka hugs her the same, with the same deep love and care that she gave her before.
And tonight, she flicks out the knife again. Old blood stains it—part of her thinks the sullied blade is a reflection of herself. Her grip tightens, her hands are shaking. Tears are dripping down. The horrible hankering, the sick thrumming under her skin, it doesn't falter. The hurt doesn’t simmer down.
She brings it close, metal almost touching her thigh—She drops the knife, a loud clattering filling the room for a moment. She fumbles for her phone, dialing in the one number she knew better than her own.
It rings once, twice, thrice, and just as Scarlet is ready to hang up, Vodka picks up. “Hey Scarlie? You… uh usually don’t… like call me around this time” The audio in the call is lively. Clattering of plates and chatter in the background. “Something the matter?”
She doesn’t know what to say, but she manages out a “It… I… please…” She’s crying. Her heart is pounding. She probably fucked up—
“Are you—” She hears hushed words and Vodka seemingly ignoring somebody completely before returning to the call, “Are you okay? I’ll be there in a moment, I promise” Scarlet doesn’t give a properly coherent answer. She can barely hear the footfalls and wind on the other side. “Do you… do you want me to talk to you… about something?” Her voice is cut apart by heavy breaths. “I’m… I’m fine with whatever…just say… the word…”
“A–Any…” Her plea is cut off by a sob. She’s barely holding together. She’s trying her best, she’s trying. “J–just d–on’t go!” Desperation hangs in her voice.
“I won’t leave you behind… I’ll stay here I swear.” A tense, but short silence filled the line. She stuttered and stammered for a second before starting again. “So—I uh—have been… planning a first-aid class with… my dad…” And off she went explaining the intricacies of setting up such a class, the people she knows are attending—inviting Scarlet as well, so on and so forth. The flow of tears has slowed by the time Vodka calls out over the phone through haggard breaths “Scar… I’m at Tracen…”
And oddly, Scarlet can’t help but be a bit terrified. She doesn’t answer, her breath hitching. The call ends suddenly and soon there is a few knocks before she hears the door unlocking.
“Scar…I’m… I’m here” Vodka starts, panting and out of breath. She runs over to Scarlet, tightly embracing her. “It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay, I swear, alright?” Such simple words…and Scarlet bites back tears, more already threatening from spilling. She turns her head away. She can’t bear to face Vodka, or even risk locking glances with her.
She doesn’t get why Vodka loves her the way she does; nor does she know why Vodka would drop everything and run over to her—basically crashing her nice dinner just to help her, or why Vodka would go out of her way to keep on talking–even while running–just for her to have something to hold on to. She doesn’t get any of it.
Maybe a happier Scarlet, one hurts less, one who yearns less for such simple affirmations and acceptance would know the answer. But, that’s not the Scarlet here. She may never get why Vodka loves her, but, right now, she isn’t trying to figure out an answer. Instead she just lets herself melt into the embrace, finally returning it fully. There’s no competition, no rivalry, no tearful bandagework, no terrified glances, there’s just warmth.
“Everything will be okay, Scar” Vodka gently coos out, rubbing small circles in Scarlet’s back. “I’m proud of you… so, so proud that you had the courage to talk to me instead of doing… that” She needs to not mention it directly for Scarlet to know clearly what she is referring to. “You’re strong, you know that right?” There’s no anger or teasing in her voice. It’s beautifully genuine. “So, so strong, and capable, and goddesses know how many other things.” She tightened her grip for a moment, just to punctuate what she said. “I’ll be here to remind you of that every day, I swear”
Scarlet squeezes ever so slightly tighter. She’s crying again, she knows it. She’s crying again, even though there’s a small tentative smile on her face.
She doesn’t need to know the why’s, she just knows she’s loved, and for now, that’s more than enough.