Knots In The Ties (one-shot)
Title: Knots In The Ties
Author: crashqueen109
Pairing: Jalex.
Rating: R. Or possibly NC17. See warnings.
Warnings: Mental illness/self-harm. But not cutting. Different type of self harm. Um. Yeah.
Summary: One. Two. Three. Count them. The minutes tick by. He counts them. Four. Five. Six. Six. Shit. He said six twice, didn’t he? Have to start over. One. Two. Three. Four.
Disclaimer: I do not own!
A/N: Um, yeah. Wrote this on a whim. I love it. I hope you do too. <333333
My Tumblr.
One. Two. Three. Count them. The minutes tick by. He counts them. Four. Five. Six. Six. Shit. He said six twice, didn’t he? Have to start over. One. Two. Three. Four.
He’s staring out the window, fingers tapping against the sill. His free hand wanders to his forehead, pushes back his hair, runs his fingers against his scalp, the noise of his nails against his skin loud in his ears. He does this ten times. It feels off. He does it ten times more. Better. That feels better.
He hears the door open, glances up. A wide grin breaks across his face, chapped lips cracking.
“Jack, hey,” he rasps. He hasn’t talked in so long. He almost forgot how.
Jack’s goofy smile warms Alex’s heart, makes him stand and forget to count minutes. He takes a few tentative steps forward, figures Jack won’t bolt, and holds his arms out for a hug.
The younger boy steps forward too, accepting Alex’s hug without question. They stand there like that for who knows how long. Except Alex knows how long. Forty-six seconds.
Jack murmurs in Alex’s ear, “I’m sorry… I can’t stay long this time. I have to go now.”
Alex feels himself grow rigid, arms tightening around Jack. “You just got here.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Jack manages his way out of Alex’s grasp, smiling apologetically, blowing a kiss before he walks back out the door. Alex stands there, arms still positioned as if they were wrapped around the boy who just left the room, mouth still open with the words he’d have used to protest hanging off the tip of his tongue.
After seventy-three seconds, Alex drops his arms and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. His brain is racing. He wants to know why Jack left. Why did he have to go? Why so early? Did he do something wrong? Should he have said something differently? Would it have made a difference at all?
Alex is wearing shorts, and he pushes the material farther up his thigh. He hasn’t cut his nails in a week or two. They are long enough. He finds the tiniest, most invisible bump on his skin and squeezes it between his thumbnails until skin breaks and the most minute well of blood appears. This excites him. He wipes the blood with the pad of his index finger, licks it off his finger swiftly with the tip of his tongue. The coppery taste is so familiar. It tastes like home and comfort.
Seconds give way to minutes, and minutes give way to countless little patches of mutilated flesh, peeled away skin, angry red spots of destruction. All the scabs from last time are gone, given way to fresh blood and the promise of a new scab that won’t stand a chance.
Alex sits there in the aftereffects of it all. The exhilaration he experiences after a bout of this habit overwhelms him. His heart is pounding, his brain is swimming. He’s quite thirsty. He can’t stop smiling. He hates that his legs are ugly, marred with scars from this thing he does to himself. His arms are the same. He doesn’t know why he does it.
He dreams of Jack that night. Wishes he could call him, but there’s no reception where Jack’s at. Instead, Alex wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming into his pillow, remembering everything bad that has ever happened. Reliving.
He scratches desperately at his skin, the precious raw skin of his forearms. He idly wonders if he scratched enough, would his tattoo disappear. He scratches until the pads of his fingers are vaguely wet, and he brings them to his lips to taste copper once more.
He scratches still, not quite sure why, but enjoying the feeling. He will stain the sheets, the brand new sheets, but he doesn’t really care. They’ll get washed eventually.
What he doesn’t realize is that he is still screaming. He is still screaming, at the top of his lungs. His mind is growing fuzzy as he continues scratching, destroying his arms with his own two hands.
The nurses rush in.
“Oh, fuck, what’s he done,” he hears one mutter under her breath.
“Has he… has he really gone and scratched himself? That’s a lot of blood for just scratching,” the second nurse exclaims.
“Well, he has no weapons, and he’s been in solitary confinement for the past week, so there’s no way he’s gotten anything to do this to himself.”
Alex is listening to the nurses as they pull him to his feet and drag him to another room where there is harsh stinging alcohol applied to his wounds and soft clean gauze wrapped tight around his arms. His eyes are wide, feeling glued shut for lack of restful sleep. He is watching the nurses, but not really seeing.
They seem to think Alex can’t hear them, though, as they continue their conversation.
“We’ll have to see about upping his meds, hm?”
“Yeah, poor boy. Ever since his best friend died… I hear he was pretty normal before that. Shame, really.”
He hears the door open, glances up. A wide grin breaks across his face, chapped lips cracking.
The doctor shakes his head and sighs. He really wanted Alex to get better. He had high hopes.
But instead, he is sinking a syringe into Alex’s forearm, and Alex is left with the remnants of a smile on his lips, his ruined voice just barely choking out the words.
Sing me to sleep… I’ll see you in my dreams…
Author: crashqueen109
Pairing: Jalex.
Rating: R. Or possibly NC17. See warnings.
Warnings: Mental illness/self-harm. But not cutting. Different type of self harm. Um. Yeah.
Summary: One. Two. Three. Count them. The minutes tick by. He counts them. Four. Five. Six. Six. Shit. He said six twice, didn’t he? Have to start over. One. Two. Three. Four.
Disclaimer: I do not own!
A/N: Um, yeah. Wrote this on a whim. I love it. I hope you do too. <333333
My Tumblr.
One. Two. Three. Count them. The minutes tick by. He counts them. Four. Five. Six. Six. Shit. He said six twice, didn’t he? Have to start over. One. Two. Three. Four.
He’s staring out the window, fingers tapping against the sill. His free hand wanders to his forehead, pushes back his hair, runs his fingers against his scalp, the noise of his nails against his skin loud in his ears. He does this ten times. It feels off. He does it ten times more. Better. That feels better.
He hears the door open, glances up. A wide grin breaks across his face, chapped lips cracking.
“Jack, hey,” he rasps. He hasn’t talked in so long. He almost forgot how.
Jack’s goofy smile warms Alex’s heart, makes him stand and forget to count minutes. He takes a few tentative steps forward, figures Jack won’t bolt, and holds his arms out for a hug.
The younger boy steps forward too, accepting Alex’s hug without question. They stand there like that for who knows how long. Except Alex knows how long. Forty-six seconds.
Jack murmurs in Alex’s ear, “I’m sorry… I can’t stay long this time. I have to go now.”
Alex feels himself grow rigid, arms tightening around Jack. “You just got here.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Jack manages his way out of Alex’s grasp, smiling apologetically, blowing a kiss before he walks back out the door. Alex stands there, arms still positioned as if they were wrapped around the boy who just left the room, mouth still open with the words he’d have used to protest hanging off the tip of his tongue.
After seventy-three seconds, Alex drops his arms and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. His brain is racing. He wants to know why Jack left. Why did he have to go? Why so early? Did he do something wrong? Should he have said something differently? Would it have made a difference at all?
Alex is wearing shorts, and he pushes the material farther up his thigh. He hasn’t cut his nails in a week or two. They are long enough. He finds the tiniest, most invisible bump on his skin and squeezes it between his thumbnails until skin breaks and the most minute well of blood appears. This excites him. He wipes the blood with the pad of his index finger, licks it off his finger swiftly with the tip of his tongue. The coppery taste is so familiar. It tastes like home and comfort.
Seconds give way to minutes, and minutes give way to countless little patches of mutilated flesh, peeled away skin, angry red spots of destruction. All the scabs from last time are gone, given way to fresh blood and the promise of a new scab that won’t stand a chance.
Alex sits there in the aftereffects of it all. The exhilaration he experiences after a bout of this habit overwhelms him. His heart is pounding, his brain is swimming. He’s quite thirsty. He can’t stop smiling. He hates that his legs are ugly, marred with scars from this thing he does to himself. His arms are the same. He doesn’t know why he does it.
He dreams of Jack that night. Wishes he could call him, but there’s no reception where Jack’s at. Instead, Alex wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming into his pillow, remembering everything bad that has ever happened. Reliving.
He scratches desperately at his skin, the precious raw skin of his forearms. He idly wonders if he scratched enough, would his tattoo disappear. He scratches until the pads of his fingers are vaguely wet, and he brings them to his lips to taste copper once more.
He scratches still, not quite sure why, but enjoying the feeling. He will stain the sheets, the brand new sheets, but he doesn’t really care. They’ll get washed eventually.
What he doesn’t realize is that he is still screaming. He is still screaming, at the top of his lungs. His mind is growing fuzzy as he continues scratching, destroying his arms with his own two hands.
The nurses rush in.
“Oh, fuck, what’s he done,” he hears one mutter under her breath.
“Has he… has he really gone and scratched himself? That’s a lot of blood for just scratching,” the second nurse exclaims.
“Well, he has no weapons, and he’s been in solitary confinement for the past week, so there’s no way he’s gotten anything to do this to himself.”
Alex is listening to the nurses as they pull him to his feet and drag him to another room where there is harsh stinging alcohol applied to his wounds and soft clean gauze wrapped tight around his arms. His eyes are wide, feeling glued shut for lack of restful sleep. He is watching the nurses, but not really seeing.
They seem to think Alex can’t hear them, though, as they continue their conversation.
“We’ll have to see about upping his meds, hm?”
“Yeah, poor boy. Ever since his best friend died… I hear he was pretty normal before that. Shame, really.”
He hears the door open, glances up. A wide grin breaks across his face, chapped lips cracking.
The doctor shakes his head and sighs. He really wanted Alex to get better. He had high hopes.
But instead, he is sinking a syringe into Alex’s forearm, and Alex is left with the remnants of a smile on his lips, his ruined voice just barely choking out the words.
Sing me to sleep… I’ll see you in my dreams…