[trigger warning]

his fingers itch for metal once again; it overcomes him, like some overwhelmingly forceful wave crashing over his head that he cannot surface from. every time he feels like screaming, his cries for help go silent. he remains struggling in cold quietude within these four walls, his chest rising and falling with the unsteady up-and-down of anxiety, the inner voices screaming over and over till he wants to reach in there and tear everything apart so he doesn't have to hear anymore.

in the end, he half-falls out of his chair, part-staggers and part-walks towards the table, his fingers curling around the sharp metal with some sort of insatiable desire - his body shakes, and he embraces the sharp pain that shoots through him and encases him into a blurry haze of agony, the type that spirals through his veins faster than bolts of lightning and numbs his senses so well that he marks his skin over and over in repetitive red lines.

blood - it's red, violently so, and the crimson liquid gushes out from opening wounds like water rushing from a dam. he can sense the way he begins to lose track of his thoughts, the way he begins to lose the ability to feel, and he welcomes the way the haziness begins to give way to unconsciousness.

the thought that crosses his mind before he lets himself fall is, i'm sorry to whatever soulmate i have out there, that i couldn't control myself anymore.

kim heechul is coming home from school when he notices extremely blatant red lines that snake across his wrist.

and in that moment, it hits him, and he freezes in his tracks.

his soulmate - jungsoo - isn't some masochist. isn't some weird happy kid who likes seeing blood.

he swallows thickly. 

out of all his friends, none of them got a possibly depressed, self-harming soulmate either.

his soulmate cuts. drags a blade across his own skin.

and he doesn't know why, but in that moment he wishes he could carve onto his own skin a frantic, where are you? just so he can run to his soulmate's side and tell him to stop harming both of their beautiful skins and so much more.

the bus goes by.

he doesn't care.

his throat constricts.

i want to tell him that he's worth it and i really think that this soulmate thing is a pain in the but if he thinks that no one can love him i want him to know that the ing purpose of me being here is to love him so he should really love himself more because not everyone deserves the love of kim heechul.

"stop it, jungsoo," he whispers to no one in particular, and the way his heart tightens in his chest is an odd feeling. is this what it's like, having a soulmate?

he watches as smiling faces board the bus, watches as the bus doors close, and realises that he'll be home a little late. 

change of plans.

his heart is thudding as he pulls out his phone, dialing a number that he hasn't dialed in a while.

"hey, i need a favour from you."

my parents are going to ing kill me.

jungsoo surrenders the blade with a cold glare - well, not surrender, per say, seeing that it was forcefully snatched from his grasp. the man stares back at him emotionlessly, holding the metal still coated over with his dried blood. "wash up." the words are spoken brusquely before he exits the room, sharp metal in hand.

he sighs. now he's back, trapped inside these same four walls, just a monster in the shell of a human being slowly rotting away into an inviting oblivion. he strips, tossing off his lower garments first before pulling off his top, being a little careful not to get the threads caught in the open wounds; he doesn't want unnecessary pain that'll do nothing but hurt, he wants the pain that hurts so well it numbs everything he's ever known.

he steps into the shower, switching on the water and testing the temperature as if it were a daily routine; he shoves his arm under the water, not flinching when it impacts against his wound. he rubs at the dried blood around the wounds, watching as the water turns a little red in colour. 

and that's when he notices the black marks that crawl along his right wrist, the wrist that isn't marked with ugly red scars. it's handwritten, cursive and messy at the same time, but quite beautiful.

you're worth it.

so, out there somewhere in the terrifyingly large world, he has a soulmate.

he wishes he could say sorry to his soulmate, whoever it is.

he also wishes he could ask his soulmate why.

because what sane person would realise their soulmate was a self-harming, depressed, hopeless guy on the brink of insanity and still act like everything's okay? because who the hell would see someone up their whole life and still tell them that they are worth the life that exists on this earth? because who is there who would accept a twisted mess of a person as who he is and not flee after seeing the demon they've become?

is this what soulmates are made for?

if so, i've been a pretty ty soulmate.

he traces the black marks on his wrist, almost as if with some form of wonderment. of course he can't feel the ink, but it looks oddly beautiful on his skin, and so damn out of place, because nothing on him is ever beautiful.

damn it.

now i can't cut that wrist ever again, because you've made it so nice to look at.

i don't even know you and you don't even know me, but why have you already helped me more than anyone else in this accursed place has?

and he wonders whether one day, he'll be able to know who the one who got this tattooed onto his or her own skin is; whether the day will come where he'll know what it feels like to be loved; whether one day in this uncertain future, he'll be able to meet his soulmate.

maybe one day these scars will fade from his skin.

maybe one day the red won't keep coming fresh anymore.

maybe one day the only thing that'll stay with him will be the words you're worth it.

maybe.