But there's a flaw in that explanation. There's a flaw in that diatribe about how it'll be even worse, if he goes. There's a flaw in how he goes on and acts like Tim hasn't thought this through, like this will be some new and terrifying experience for him. He huffs softly, once, a wry rush of sound exhaled sharply through his nose.
"I know."
Maybe it means something.
Maybe it means something that, of everyone who he could have spilled this shit to, Sans is maybe the one person he knows might mind the least.
He lifts his left arm. It's dark, but he can still see them. The faint and faded white marks across the underside of both arms. He draws one long, slow path down from wrist to elbow with the tip of one finger. The skin beneath trembles and pocks with reflexive gooseflesh.
"Ten years old. Sedated, put on watch for seventy-two hours. They stopped giving me mattresses with bedsprings after that."
Another finger, drawn along the lip of his clavicle. Just underneath the throat. Beneath his shirt, there's another white line that runs and runs and runs like a crack in cement.
"Thirteen years old. Sedated, put on watch for seventy-two hours. They took away my window for that, after the fourth time I ran away."
Right arm now. The same place as the first.
"They stopped letting me use pencils after that one. Pencil sharpeners too. And, hey," he says, bitterly, sweeping one hand in a sharp jerk of motion, "those are just the ones you can see."
His arms fall to his sides.
"You know Jay had a copy of my medical files?" He can't even sound angry about that one anymore. There are worse things, right? "He posted them online for everyone to take a look at, just - whenever they felt like it. I scored a fourteen on my risk assessment tool, and he knew it. Caught me overdosing on film, once. That should've been the end for me. It should have."
But it wasn't.
"But I woke up after. Couldn't remember how. Couldn't remember why."
Because - that thing.
It won't let him go.
"So trust me, okay?" His tone cracks slightly, a faint rasp of something pleading and desperate. He's weighed the costs. He knows the costs. He knows the benefits. He knows that this is stupid, and it'll fuck him up in the long term, but right now? Right now he just - he just wants out. Whatever the damn cost. "Trust me when I say - I know."
cw more in-depth discussion of suicide
But there's a flaw in that explanation. There's a flaw in that diatribe about how it'll be even worse, if he goes. There's a flaw in how he goes on and acts like Tim hasn't thought this through, like this will be some new and terrifying experience for him. He huffs softly, once, a wry rush of sound exhaled sharply through his nose.
"I know."
Maybe it means something.
Maybe it means something that, of everyone who he could have spilled this shit to, Sans is maybe the one person he knows might mind the least.
He lifts his left arm. It's dark, but he can still see them. The faint and faded white marks across the underside of both arms. He draws one long, slow path down from wrist to elbow with the tip of one finger. The skin beneath trembles and pocks with reflexive gooseflesh.
"Ten years old. Sedated, put on watch for seventy-two hours. They stopped giving me mattresses with bedsprings after that."
Another finger, drawn along the lip of his clavicle. Just underneath the throat. Beneath his shirt, there's another white line that runs and runs and runs like a crack in cement.
"Thirteen years old. Sedated, put on watch for seventy-two hours. They took away my window for that, after the fourth time I ran away."
Right arm now. The same place as the first.
"They stopped letting me use pencils after that one. Pencil sharpeners too. And, hey," he says, bitterly, sweeping one hand in a sharp jerk of motion, "those are just the ones you can see."
His arms fall to his sides.
"You know Jay had a copy of my medical files?" He can't even sound angry about that one anymore. There are worse things, right? "He posted them online for everyone to take a look at, just - whenever they felt like it. I scored a fourteen on my risk assessment tool, and he knew it. Caught me overdosing on film, once. That should've been the end for me. It should have."
But it wasn't.
"But I woke up after. Couldn't remember how. Couldn't remember why."
Because - that thing.
It won't let him go.
"So trust me, okay?" His tone cracks slightly, a faint rasp of something pleading and desperate. He's weighed the costs. He knows the costs. He knows the benefits. He knows that this is stupid, and it'll fuck him up in the long term, but right now? Right now he just - he just wants out. Whatever the damn cost. "Trust me when I say - I know."