The First Cut by Philote
Title: The First Cut
Author: Philote
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She’d never been the suicidal type.
Character: Claire Bennet
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Heroes do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don’t sue.
Warnings: Self-injury
Challenge: #2 In the Beginning
oOo
She’d never been the suicidal type.
It was a tiny little paper cut that changed everything, a small but painful slit in her index finger courtesy of a graded essay she’d jerked away from her brother. She’d hissed at the pain, fretted as blood greedily met oxygen. With an accusatory glare at Lyle she’d searched for a Kleenex. By the time she’d come up with one and moved to stop the bleeding, there was no blood.
There wasn’t even a mark. The skin was flawless.
She’d tried to shrug it off. But it had upset her. Had she imagined it; was she seeing things? Faced with the prospect of being delusional, she’d had to investigate further.
But she wasn’t the type that took to the blade easily, either. The reality of purposefully causing pain gave her pause, and she sat on her bathroom floor for three nights in a row with the razorblade poised over her arm. She’d barely touch the tip of the cold metal to her skin, but she couldn’t bring herself to press down.
When she finally did, it was with her eyes screwed tightly shut and her thoughts reciting her latest cheer routine. All it took was a little pressure, and when she looked again a little bubble of blood had sprung to the surface.
By the time she’d wiped the droplet away with her finger, there was no cut beneath it.
It hadn’t even hurt.
It came easier after that. The little nick became a shallow cut. Then the cuts got longer, deeper.
And they did hurt, for a moment. But they always healed. The worse they were the longer they took, but it was still a matter of seconds. And if she left the bubbling blood alone, it disappeared as well. She thought it might be reabsorbing into her body, and she spent about a week staring closely and trying to figure that out.
It became a nightly habit, a fascination she couldn’t seem to shake. It was something she had to keep to herself with utmost secrecy-not for the taboo or even the psychological issues of self-injury, but because she couldn’t let anyone know she was a freak.
The first attempt on her life-the first one with a real probability of killing her-was an accident. She’d had a bad day; she was preoccupied with Jackie’s power play. She’d been doing several cuts at once, crisscrossing and doubling up, seeing how that affected the healing rate. She wasn’t paying enough attention. She went a little too fast, a little too deep.
She felt it when the artery was nicked. There was a pop, and then the trickle of blood she’d been watching suddenly turned into a geyser. Panic sucked her breath away. Survival instinct kicked in and she clapped a hand over it, trying to staunch the flow, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.
She waited for the dizziness that would come with blood loss. She opened her mouth to call for help. But the words died on her lips when she realized the pain had gone away. There was a moment when all she felt was a wash of cold, thinking that the lack of pain meant she was dying. Then she let her hand fall away.
The cut was gone. Just like always. Its severity had been nothing in the face of her odd ability. She’d survived what should have been a deathblow.
There was no denying the thrill she felt.
And, like that first little purposeful nick in her skin, this too grew easier. It wasn’t like she was trying to commit suicide; she was just seeing how many ways she could not kill herself. There were several more attempts before she got up the courage to look for a camera for documentation.
But that was how she’d ended up here. By the time Zach was behind the camera, she was reckless about it. She knew nothing could kill her; she just wanted to prove it.
Six attempts and a blazing fire later, and there was a little bit of cold panic edging out her devil-may-care bravado.
She couldn’t die, even if she wanted to.
Most people saw hopelessness in death. But for Claire, there was something hopeless about being stuck in this world with no way out.
No, she’d never been the suicidal type. But now that it wasn’t an option, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
oOo
Author: Philote
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She’d never been the suicidal type.
Character: Claire Bennet
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Heroes do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don’t sue.
Warnings: Self-injury
Challenge: #2 In the Beginning
oOo
She’d never been the suicidal type.
It was a tiny little paper cut that changed everything, a small but painful slit in her index finger courtesy of a graded essay she’d jerked away from her brother. She’d hissed at the pain, fretted as blood greedily met oxygen. With an accusatory glare at Lyle she’d searched for a Kleenex. By the time she’d come up with one and moved to stop the bleeding, there was no blood.
There wasn’t even a mark. The skin was flawless.
She’d tried to shrug it off. But it had upset her. Had she imagined it; was she seeing things? Faced with the prospect of being delusional, she’d had to investigate further.
But she wasn’t the type that took to the blade easily, either. The reality of purposefully causing pain gave her pause, and she sat on her bathroom floor for three nights in a row with the razorblade poised over her arm. She’d barely touch the tip of the cold metal to her skin, but she couldn’t bring herself to press down.
When she finally did, it was with her eyes screwed tightly shut and her thoughts reciting her latest cheer routine. All it took was a little pressure, and when she looked again a little bubble of blood had sprung to the surface.
By the time she’d wiped the droplet away with her finger, there was no cut beneath it.
It hadn’t even hurt.
It came easier after that. The little nick became a shallow cut. Then the cuts got longer, deeper.
And they did hurt, for a moment. But they always healed. The worse they were the longer they took, but it was still a matter of seconds. And if she left the bubbling blood alone, it disappeared as well. She thought it might be reabsorbing into her body, and she spent about a week staring closely and trying to figure that out.
It became a nightly habit, a fascination she couldn’t seem to shake. It was something she had to keep to herself with utmost secrecy-not for the taboo or even the psychological issues of self-injury, but because she couldn’t let anyone know she was a freak.
The first attempt on her life-the first one with a real probability of killing her-was an accident. She’d had a bad day; she was preoccupied with Jackie’s power play. She’d been doing several cuts at once, crisscrossing and doubling up, seeing how that affected the healing rate. She wasn’t paying enough attention. She went a little too fast, a little too deep.
She felt it when the artery was nicked. There was a pop, and then the trickle of blood she’d been watching suddenly turned into a geyser. Panic sucked her breath away. Survival instinct kicked in and she clapped a hand over it, trying to staunch the flow, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.
She waited for the dizziness that would come with blood loss. She opened her mouth to call for help. But the words died on her lips when she realized the pain had gone away. There was a moment when all she felt was a wash of cold, thinking that the lack of pain meant she was dying. Then she let her hand fall away.
The cut was gone. Just like always. Its severity had been nothing in the face of her odd ability. She’d survived what should have been a deathblow.
There was no denying the thrill she felt.
And, like that first little purposeful nick in her skin, this too grew easier. It wasn’t like she was trying to commit suicide; she was just seeing how many ways she could not kill herself. There were several more attempts before she got up the courage to look for a camera for documentation.
But that was how she’d ended up here. By the time Zach was behind the camera, she was reckless about it. She knew nothing could kill her; she just wanted to prove it.
Six attempts and a blazing fire later, and there was a little bit of cold panic edging out her devil-may-care bravado.
She couldn’t die, even if she wanted to.
Most people saw hopelessness in death. But for Claire, there was something hopeless about being stuck in this world with no way out.
No, she’d never been the suicidal type. But now that it wasn’t an option, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
oOo