Chan dazedly watched the scissor blade glide across his skin, leaving little pinpricks of crimson in its path. The stinging sensation was barely noticeable over his emotions raging within him and threatening to escape in a scream. But he swallowed down the lump in his throat with difficulty, choosing to gaze down at the mess he had created on his forearm, the skin raw and red and covered with angry streaks and scratches.

Only one cut had managed to draw blood and that, however small, felt like an accomplishment which brought a small smile to Chan’s face. As he watched blots of red seep out of the cut, all the anger, frustration and sadness drained out of him as though a plug had been pulled.

It’s finally quiet. Chan hadn’t felt that in a while. Gone were the voices spitting harsh words at him. It was just him, sitting all alone on the bathroom floor.

It didn't last long. As Chan stared down once again at his arm, in the blink of an eye, reality came crashing down on him. Hard.

Oh god, what has he done?

All at once, the emotions swarmed in viciously, choking him and clogging his windpipe him as though water was filling him up from the inside. Shame overwhelmed him, crawling all over his skin like fire ants as his breathing became laboured.

It’s always the same cycle. He cuts, it diminishes the voices for a while and then he feels ashamed of himself. It made Chan wonder why he still continued to do it.

The peace was shattered as the voices rushed back tenfold.

You’re so stupid. What would the members say if they saw you right now? They’d be so disappointed. They’d be disgusted.

A sob spilled from his lips and Chan hurriedly bit down on them hard enough to tear the skin. It’s the dead of the night, he couldn’t afford to wake the other members up. He couldn’t let them see him. Not like this.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around himself tightly, ignoring the sudden sting as the wounds grazed the rough material of his sweatshirt. He dug his fingernails deep into his flesh, wanting to just curl into himself and tune the whole world out.

His vision turned hazy as tears welled up, till the scars all just blurred together into one big patch of redness. Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing to stop the torrent of tears from streaming down his face.

Where had it all gone wrong? How had he turned from a cheerful boy with stars in his eyes…into this?

How he wished he could go back in time to warn his younger self that the reality of his future would be so harsh he couldn’t possibly fathom it. That his hopes and dreams of dancing and performing on stage weren’t as simple as they seemed.

Expectations, expectations, expectations. When had that word turned into something so ugly, so vile that it kept him up awake at nights, wore his mind and body out and left a bitter taste in his mouth?

As though they could sense he was at his most vulnerable and had let his shields down, his thoughts crowded his brain mercilessly. They plagued his mind so that he couldn’t think of anything else but his flaws. Weak, pathetic, useless.

He wasn’t funny, he couldn’t sing, couldn’t rap as well as the hip-hop team, definitely couldn’t choreograph or dance like their performance team leader…

Heck, he couldn’t even do his part right as the youngest. He’s supposed to be bright and cheerful, not be so down all the time. He’s not supposed to carry so many worries, to feel so lonely. He’s not supposed to be a burden for the members. He didn’t have the right.

The last dam holding his emotions together crumbled apart as Chan broke down. His good arm reached up to muffle the whimpers as Chan wept.

Why?

He’d been doing so well; he was starting to smile out of his own will more, he had felt the flame for his passion for dancing bubbling stronger and he had finally found the drive to do things. He’d even managed to stop hurting himself for weeks now.

So why was he back to square one?

Chan cried harder. He wanted it all to stop. He’s tired, exhausted and drained.

He just wanted one day.

One day where he could drop the façade, where he could stop pretending to be happy. One day where he didn’t have to force himself to smile, where he didn’t have to squeeze out every last drop of his willpower just to get out of bed. One day where he didn’t have to care about worrying s, where he’s free to be his broken self.

Chan didn’t know how much time had passed but it’s enough for the redness on his arm to fade a little and for the blood to dry up. He waited numbly until the last of his sobs dwindled to snivels, until no more tears could come, before standing up slowly and stretching his legs.

His pathetic appearance in the mirror greeted him, puffy red eyes, wet cheeks and all. Slowly and monotonously, he began the process of cleaning himself up, washing the blood off his arm, wiping his face clean and rinsing the blade before slipping it into his pocket.

The dull eyes of his reflection met him once more and he let out an empty chuckle. No matter how much he begged, that day would never come.

Pulling the sleeves down to his wrist, he took a final deep breath before turning the knob and opening the bathroom door.

It’s all dark and silent out in the living room. It’s almost surreal. The world outside was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the torment Chan was going through; it was like stepping into another world, Chan mused absentmindedly as he trudged back to his room.

The emptiness seemed to cackle at him behind his back.