Want it. Take it. Love it. Keep it.

WARNING: This chapter contains self mutilation and suicidal thoughts, as well as other potentionally disturbing material.

Also, if you find yourself thinking that L seems kind of ooc in this chapter, keep in mind that even those who are very strong mentally have their breaking point. Especially those not used to feeling extreme emotions. Also, L is very curious by nature. It makes sense (to me at least) that he might want to gain his own experience to better understand the situation, even if he knows it is potentially harmful. The fact that he is under a severe amount of stress probably isn't helping much either...Also, I am not trying to make the generalization that everyone who cuts wants to kill themself, that is most often not the case. I am not trying to imply that everyone who is abused hurts themselves. People react to emotional trauma in various ways. I just thought I'd get that out in the open.

I got the title, as well as the opening lines from the song, 'I'm A Fake' by The Used. Awesome song. Awesome band.

Anyway, now that I've finished covering my ass, here it is. Read. Enjoy. Review.

chelzi and Evermist - THANK YOU SO MUCH! I LOVE YOU BOTH!



CHAPTER 21

LOVE IS NOT LIKE ANYTHING , ESPECIALLY A FUCKING KNIFE


/"Small, simple, safe price. Rise the wake, and carry me with all of my regrets. This is not a small cut that scabs, and dries, and flakes, and heals. And I am not afraid to die. I am not afraid to bleed, and fuck, and fight. I want the pain of payment. What's left but a section of pygmy sized cuts, much like a slew of a thousand unwanted fucks. Would you be my little cut? Would you be my thousand fucks? And make mark leaving space for the guilt to be liquid. To fill, and spill over and under my thoughts. My sad, sorry, selfish cry out to the cutter. I'm cutting, trying to picture your black broken heart. Love is not like anything, especially a fucking knife."/


At first, Mello had tried to hide the self mutilation, the cuts and burns growing more numerous with each passing day. L knew, when he tried to initiate sex, or even a kiss, and Mello violently pushed him away, that one of these sessions had recently taken place. When the mood to be close struck, the blond would try all sorts of tricks, from keeping his shirt on, to insisting the lights be turned out, to saying that he was cold while pulling the blankets over their heads. Even when L would let Mello do as he wished, when he slid his hands up Mello's arms, or brushed them across Mello's inner thighs, he could /feel/ every injury, some still sticky with the blood that wasn't properly washed away. It made him sick to hear Mello's moans grow louder as he did this, as if the pain of his fingers brushing a fresh wound felt /good/. He hated himself for it, as if somehow it was all his fault.

Eventually, Mello stopped hiding altogether. He pranced around in the nude, jumping the detective whenever they were alone. There were small straight lines traveling up both inner arms, starting at the wrist, the fresh ones overlapping with the pinkish healed ones. The cuts on his inner thighs were wider, deeper. L counted them, daily, noting the rabid increase. The detective had entered his room once to see Mello laying naked on the bed, razor blade dragging across the area just above the pubic bone. L watched the blood flow out of the cut. Mello's hand was covered in it, and as L watched in horror, he began to stroke himself with that hand, calling his lover to the bed. L wanted to take the instrument away, shake the teen, ask him just how the hell dare he ever think that L could enjoy such a thing. The detective ran to the bathroom, locked the door. He sat in the shower, not unable to move, to even cry.

One afternoon, when L was alone, working while Mello did whatever he did during the day (he had begun /skipping/ his classes, disappearing for hours at a time), the detective happened upon a message board calling itself a 'support group'. There were numerous categories and sub categories, variously labeled 'cutting', 'burning', 'recovery, 'emergency'. Under the emergency category, to his horror, L read the following.

/"one hour. still bleeding. think it's too deep. please don't tell me to go the hospital. my parents can't find out. just tell me how to slow it down. home stitches maybe?"/

There were several photos to go along. Before and after shots. L clicked on another link.

/"Think it's infected?"/

There was another picture, showing the instruments used to burn the flesh, as well as the wound that was weeping clear fluids.

L couldn't pull himself away from it now. There were hundreds of similar messages.

/"is there sumthing wrong w/me. it's so dark l8ly. haven't eaten nething in 2 wks. connection?"/

The detective read for hours, looking for his answer. He didn't need to know how to stop bleeding, what instruments to use, how to hide the scars. What he needed to know was /why/ his lover did this. How in the hell did it help? Often, after Mello had injured himself, he seemed elated, euphoric, like he was on a high. L knew the boy didn't have access to any drugs on the premises, he'd have noticed the signs, but had begun to search the boys belongings anyway. There were no needle marks, no bloody noses or blown out pupils. So the way he behaved after hurting himself was obviously an emotional reaction.

L finally decided, after clicking away the message board in disgust, that there was only one way to figure it out. He couldn't come close to understanding how Mello felt after the news of his abuse as a child, but L was indeed emotionally distressed. The set up was similar. Would this relieve the tension, make things alright, if only for a few moments?

He dug through Mello's dresser drawers, finally happening upon a box he'd seen carefully tucked away during his last search. He already knew what he'd find inside. An array of razor blades, lighters, some bandages. At least the boy was careful to protect himself from infection by cleaning the wounds, though L noticed that 'cleaning' usually involved violent scrubbing, causing the abused flesh to reopen.

Having remembered the few times he'd been burned accidently, knowing how easily those such injuries became infected, L selected a newer razor blade from the box, tucking the rest of the instruments back in the 'hiding place'. As much as he wanted to throw the whole thing away, it would only anger the boy, and he could get more.

The first cut, across the back of his wrist, was quite shallow. It didn't even hurt, though it bled for several minutes. He tried another, pressing harder, dragging the blade. He could /hear/ his flesh ripping open, knew it was certainly deeper since it took longer for the blood to well up. When it finally did, he let his arm hang limp, watched the crimson fluid drip down, flowing to his hand, dripping from his fingers to the floor. There was no sudden euphoria, no release whatsoever. Was he doing it wrong? He'd seen his lover do very much the same.

He still bled as he switched arms, this time placing the blade on the flesh at the inside of his wrist, staring at the criss-crossing of blue veins there. He pressed down with the razorblade, gently enough to not seriously injure, but deeper than the previous times. This time there was some pain, his body warning that this might be dangerous, though he ignored the protests. With the pain came the unfamiliar sensation of shame. He was hurting himself /on purpose/, ignoring instincts to protect this very sensitive flesh from the incredibly sharp metal. He felt no pleasure in it, only...embarassment, as well as concern of being found out. What would Watari say if he could see him now? This was so foolish. He knew enough of psychology to realize that this behavior only deepened the problems one might try to solve by it. But didn't Mello always feel better after? Didn't he smile, bounce around the room like an excited child in a candy store? Where was that? He wanted that feeling, needed it.

A little more pressure was applied with the second cut, then the third. It was hard to see what he was doing now, there was blood /everywhere/. It soaked the leg of his jeans that his arm rested upon. It was warm, sticky, so very red. Still his actions offered no comfort, only more regret and disgust.

L tasted salt long before he realized that he was now crying. He made no move to wipe his eyes, or reach for something to wipe away the blood. Behind him, the door creaked open, a familiar voice called out, excited at first, then shocked, angry. Oh god Mello was going to hate him for this.

"L! What have you done to yourself!" Mello yanked off his hooded sweatshirt, which he wore to mask most of his wounds from his caretakers. He didn't care if L saw them, since he was bound to anyway, but they might send him to another fucking therapist, make him talk about his daddy again. The blond winced as the fabric dragged over some fresh burns, made by a cigarette he'd pilfered from Matt.

"It makes you feel better. It didn't work, though. Look, I did it right." The detective held up his wrist, which still bled profusely. "I wanted to know why. You're so happy after you do it. I wanted to be happy with you."

Mello wrapped his sweatshirt around his lover's wrist, going to his dresser to find some bandages. He needed to soak up some of the blood so he could see how deep the cuts were. "Put pressure on it."

"I know that." The detective made no move to do as he was told, just sat there, fascinated by the way the liquid spilled out with each beat of his heart, how it flowed in all directions, falling from his arm, dripping down his hand. His tears fell onto his lips, he wiped them away, smearing some blood in their place. He licked this away, the strange copper taste clinging to a tongue that was used to suagary sweet things. It was quite unpleasant.

"L! Are you listening to me? You're losing a lot of blood. Do you feel ok? Can you stand?" Mello was tending to the wounds at the detective's wrist, having gone through several pads of gauze. Frustrated, he fetched a bathtowel, applying pressure. Blessedly, the towel was black (his own) so he didn't see just how much of his lover's blood it soaked up. It had already soaked up his own on many occaisions.

"I just wanted to understand. Please don't hate me." L mumbled on, pleading with Mello not to be disgusted with him, or angry, to just please come be held.

Mello couldn't believe it. Even now, when the blood was slowing down, but not stopping, he'd wanted to protect the blond. To hold him, tell him everything would be ok. But it wouldn't, would it? Because L had screwed up. He couldn't find that clarity that this was supposed to bring, did seem to bring for the young blond. If only it had worked, he thought, maybe he could get his head straight long enough to figure out how to help his Mello.

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L had needed stitches. A mutual decision was made that between the two of them, this could be done upstairs. L was adamant that Watari not see his wrist, sounding very much like the children he'd read about in his 'research'. He did not want his father to be disappointed in him.

A cut on L's arm had needed at least one stitch, and each on his wrist had needed more than that. Though the detective had thought he could manage the task completely on his own, his hands still shook from the recent emotional breakdown, as well as the physical shock of losing so much blood. Mello apologized that he had no anesthetic to offer, and hated to have to repeatedly push the angled needle through his lover's pale skin, to have to cause any more pain.

They curled in bed, the blond saying sorry over and over for causing this, promising he would get better for L's sake. The detective seemed to finally be believing him as he drifted to sleep, for once being held in Mello's arms, his back pressed against the smaller boy's chest.

The teen watched L sleep for several hours, silently planning what he was about to do. He'd /promised/ he'd get better, and he meant it. What he hadn't said, was that he couldn't stop hurting himself, feeling disgusted with himself. Sometime before dawn, he carefully slipped out of the bed, quietly packing a bag while his lover slept soundly. He knew that L only slept when he was near, and that the insomnia would most definately rear it's ugly head again as soon as he was gone. He also knew that this was better in the long run. The stress of his presence would be lifted from everyone. L wouldn't hurt himself again, Matt could forget his stupid crush, and Near could finally win.


Mello filled his bag with the necessities. Not knowing where he'd go, or what he'd do when he got there. Maybe someone would make the decision for him. He might end up in some alley somewhere, murdered for the small wad of cash in his pocket. Maybe he'd find his way back to his birthplace, visit the home where all this had started. He could end it there himself. The house had been deserted, no one wanted to live in a place that had concealed such terrible crimes.
The teen almost changed his mind while penning his goodbye note. He did his best to not let his tears ruin the ink, hoping L wouldn't wake in the middle of it. He explained that it was better this way, even if it didn't seem like it right now. How he didn't /want/ to leave, but staying would only be selfish. All he had wanted to do was hurt himself, punish himself, but he'd dragged his lover down into hell with him and that was unacceptable. That was unfair. Anyway, he wasn't the person that L had loved anymore. He was just an empty shell. The gift he'd given when they'd lost their virginity together had been a lie. It had been long gone before the detective had ever set his eyes upon him. He was /dirty/. L deserved better.

He continued, asking that L comfort Watari and Matt, who would surely miss him at first. Tell them he loved them too, and he was terribly sorry for ruining their lives. He didn't /want/ to leave, he just /had to/.