Author note: I completed this sometime around 3 AM, so please forgive any mistakes in grammar or sentence structure. I'll fix them in the near future.

God! Why was Yukio such an asshole?! I'd fallen asleep in class again, and he totally bitched me out in front of everyone. It's absolutely humiliating, he could be more professional, but he chooses not to. It's because I'm the horrible fuck up of an older sibling. He looks down on me, and I can't stand it.

I gritted my teeth as I stomped through the puddles. The weather wasn't helping my mood, with rain pouring over me and making my hair flatten to my scalp. Grunting, I shoved the door open to our dormitory, slamming it shut behind me and sloshing my way up the stairs. My clothes dripped as I walked through the hallway, the uniform beginning to stick to me uncomfortably.

I pushed my door open and walked to the center of the room, staring at my feet, fuming. The sound of rain thumping off the roof was the only sound I could hear, my eyes watching the puddle beneath my feet grow wider. With a tinge of agitation, I started pulling off my academy jacket, cussing and growling when it fought against me. "Come on," I whined, desperation starting to lace my veins. It's been a shitty day and this was the last thing I wanted.

I basically tore the garment off of me, repeating the process with my button up and tossing them both to the floor. My blood pressure was through the roof and I was extremely done with the world's bullshit. I kicked off my shoes, not caring that I dragged mud through the entire building.

"Rin?" A high pitched voice called from outside the door. I turned and saw Kuro's large eyes assessing me. "What's wrong?"

I growled, "nothing, leave me alone." I stepped forward and shut the door in his face, staring at the woodgrain and sneering. Faintly, I heard him sigh, and I could only assume that he walked away. Even he was done with my antics, and that pissed me off even more. I turned and slammed my fist into the wall, pain rattling through my knuckles and causing a picture to fall to the ground. I saw it in my peripheral, just barely, as the frame made contact with the floor and glass shattered and flew everywhere.

My anger dissipated, replaced first by shock, and then with guilt. I took a deep breath and bent down, careful of the glass shards around me. I lifted the photo up, realizing how wet it had become and my heart dropped.

It was a picture of Dad and the two of us. It was his forty-seventh birthday, and we were circled around his birthday cake. I recalled that cake clearly, seeing as how it was my first attempt at a cheesecake and it had turned out atrocious. But Dad was absolutely beside himself as he praised me over and over for trying. The memory was fond, but I felt my heart throb as I wiped the dirty water off its surface.

Already, the paper was peeling apart and the perfect square was a bit misshapen. Glancing around, I became thankful that Yukio had a meeting tonight. I hurried into the bathroom, a few shards of glass sticking into my heel and making me wince in the process. That was the least of my worries as I ripped a towel off the hanger and put the photo on the counter, pressing the dry cloth against it.

"Yukio's gonna fucking kill me if he finds out." I berated myself, a horrible guilt settling in my gut as I desperately tried to dry one of the few physical memories I had left of my father. "I'm sorry, dad." I whispered, "this is just another fuck up to add to that ever extending list, isn't it? I'm such a stupid mistake, aren't I?" I cussed and slammed my fist against the counter, letting my emotions get the better of me. "God I hate myself so fucking much. Why'd I have to be a demon?" I shoved myself away from the sink, walking back into the room and kneeling by the shattered glass. Sighing, I started picking up the pieces, my fingers getting scraped by a few pieces. I grasped the largest piece, the cringe worthy sound of the glass scraping against the wooden floor.

I held onto the shard, thoughts dancing in my head.
Sighing, I set the pile in my hand down, the smaller pieces rolling around before coming to a stop. Inside, I knew what I was about to do was wrong, but I also didn't care. I was self loathing and upset, being the son of Satan, an abomination of a brother, a failure of an adoptive son... it was all too much.

I rose to my feet and trudged my way back to the bathroom, closing the door slightly. I left it ajar, just in case Yukio came back, I'd be able to hear him. I swallowed hard and stared at myself in the mirror. I knew the consequences of my choice. It wasn't my first rodeo, to be fairly honest. I'd always been a target of hatred, even before these damn demonic powers ruined my life. I was an angsty preteen with no friends, so these thoughts always plagued me. But I never told anyone, no, these problems were my own. And they'd only laugh at me. A teenager who hurts himself because he doesn't fit in? How cliché.

I grunted and tried to talk myself out of it. I had scars on my thighs due to this habit. Thankfully, my boxers always covered them. My free hand trailed over my pants, tracing the secrets that lay underneath. I dully wondered what would happen if people knew. What would they do? How would they view me? I found myself being thankful of my gender. I couldn't imagine being a female with this problem. How would you hid it? With women's fashion having such short skirts and crop tops, it seemed hard to cover such a secret. Not without sacrificing garments that most girls wouldn't think about living without. Being a guy, my thighs were always covered down to my knees. Even swimwear accommodated for my demented past.

I scoffed, I had it easy in that department, but my gender also hindered me. Men didn't feel pain, no, we were never sad. Even though that was complete and utter bullshit, it's what society pushes on us. The stoic statue was what women wanted, they wanted someone to hold and protect them. This protector was to be merciless when needed. That's why men in uniform were so sought after. They dutifully served their country and their people without complaint. Most have memories of grisly encounters and gruesome injuries. But they were men. They were okay with that sort of thing. At least, that's the ideal.

Yet, here I was, trying to earn my uniform, but unable to lock my emotions away. How could I become an Exorcist like this? I couldn't, that's just it. I was never meant to become someone so revered. I was an outcast, a dog to the Vatican. If they told me to jump, my only question would be 'how high?' I'm sure it would only be a matter of time before I stepped out of line and got my head blown off. Hell, at the rate I was going with schooling, I'd simply run out of time. Why even bother, anymore? Is it worth trying to fight a losing battle? Life is only worth living when you have something to live for, and I didn't have that. My death would only benefit those around me.

My grip on the shard tightened and I felt it pierce my palm. I walked to the bathtub, pushing the plain shower curtain aside before stepping in and sitting down. I hated this feeling. I was hopeless, helpless, worthless, less than everything. I bit down on my lip and grunted. I briefly set the glass down on the edge of the tub, crimson smearing across the usually transparent surface. I unbuckled my belt and wrestled with it, tossing it outside of the tub and returning my trembling hands to my pant button. Once unzipped, I hooked my thumbs under the waist line and scooted them down. I pushed myself off the bottom of the fiberglass and wiggled my academy uniform off until it was just above my knees. I shoved my boxers up, revealing the silver lines of my memories.

I traced my finger over the surface of my skin, the wounds were healed, but the deeper injuries had healed in ways that left my upper thighs bumpy in texture. My eyes scanned them, recalling the situations I'd been through before and during the making of each one. I'd started so tame, with a shallow scratch here and there. However, as time went on, I became less and less afraid of the blade. I began to learn just how far was too far, and even when I reached that point, I would realize that I was still breathing. One cut turned into two, two into five, five into ten at a time. Soon enough, I would slash myself upwards of thirty times before I realized I was running out of real estate. That. That's when things truly got bad.

Up until then, I'd been making single marks, above and below one another. It's the way I'd been doing it since I'd begun, I'd thought it was the only way. However, one of my only rules was: never cut over healing wounds. So I was beginning to struggle. I was cutting more, but the purple scars faded at the same rate. Then I realized that my cuts could intersect. Crosshatching doubled the damage I could inflict, and it rose the average wound number to about fifty to sixty a session, depending on how upset I was.

I ground my teeth as I mulled this over, fingers tracing over the dips and raised bumps. It's been too long since I've done this, I craved the feeling of a blade against my skin. I could only compare it to what an addict might feel after a long awaited fix. Thoughtfully, I picked the glass up, placing it against the hot skin of my leg and gently scraping it over old wounds. I shivered at the action before abruptly laughing. I looked insane, feening at the thought of injuring myself. So, I was unstable, I didn't care, this fucked up brain of mine should have never existed, so the fact that it functions at all was good enough for me.

I sat there, lightly tracing my legs with my weapon, listening to the rain pouring outside. I could hear it thrum against the window out in the bedroom, and it set the tone for my thoughts. The adrenaline of anticipation was starting to wear off and I began to crave more than just minor scratches. Deciding I'd had enough stalling, I pushed myself up into a straighter position, grasping my right leg with my left hand before dragging the glass harshly against myself.

I gasped, leaning back and letting my head hit the tub wall. My bare back hit the smooth tile and I barely registered the memory of tearing my shirt off. I licked my dry lips and set my gaze downcast, dissatisfied with the damage. It wasn't even that deep, it was like I'd forgotten my strength and was scared of the blade again. I hummed, not letting my fear get the best of me. I slid the glass again to no avail, achieving only a mediocre laceration at best. Blood pooled on the edges of the wounds, but nothing spilled over.

I flipped the glass in my hand, the bleeding slit in my palm was proof enough that this thing was brutal. Shoving the opposite end into my thigh, I found satisfaction when it went in deep. The searing pain washed over me and I groaned, pressing harder as I dragged. Again and again I held it to my skin, watching in fascination as the blood spilled and dripped up my leg and absorbed into my boxers. I criss crossed the cuts, carving myself as easily as I would a holiday ham. I know I should stop at some point, not that I was going to lose too much blood or anything. You'd be surprised just how much you could lose before feeling the side effects. No. I should stop before I make more wounds than I can care for. Lord only knows how much bandage I'd need the way it was.

Sighing, I pulled my tool away, dropping it on the tub's ledge. I pushed my pants down and passed my ankles, not wanting to deal with stains later.
In the process, My torso became tainted by the liquid that oozed from my legs. Relaxing against the shower wall, I realized I was sweaty and hot. My heart was racing, no doubt pumping blood faster and faster toward it's inevitable doom that was spilling out of me. I watched as it trickled slowly. There was no gushing, no massive pool of blood, this wasn't a Hollywood scene. The human body could take a lot of damage and still stand. Just sitting here, my blood was already clotting, healing itself without the aid of outsiders.

Outside, the rain was still strong against the roof, the pitter patter of water droplets falling from leaf to leaf echoing off the surrounding nature. Laying in this tub, I seemed to be... displeased with this outcome. It wasn't enough. I hadn't been mangled to my liking. I wanted to watch blood drip and form a puddle, not ooze and get covered up by fabric. I rubbed my hand over my wounds, smearing the liquid and dyeing my skin a crimson hue. This wasn't enough.

I gnawed on my lip, contemplating. I'd only ever done it on my thighs. Could I really risk wounding another area? The storm outside only reminded me of the late autumn season. It'd be getting colder in the coming months, it'll be easier to cover. And it's not like anyone cares enough anyway.

I shifted in my spot, dropping my right knee and bending my left. I placed the corresponding arm on top and reached for the glass, admiring the flawless skin of my forearm one last time before pressing the weapon into the tender flesh right above my elbow. I hissed. Oh god, I had so much leverage at this angle. If I was in any state of mind other than the one I was in, I'd be terrified. Instead, I was thrilled. I lifted my hand and placed it again, twice more, a third time, fourth... it was pure euphoria. I shifted once more, allowing my arm to extend past my knee. The fluid that kept me alive readily dripped from my limb, plopping silently against the fiberglass.

I scored my arm several times, utilizing my previous acts of crosshatching to further maim myself. As I reached my wrist, I realized that my strokes held more weight, and pressing too harshly would be irreparable. That fact buzzed inside me, it wasn't life or death when it came to bleeding out, it was a challenge with myself. Just how far could I take myself to the edge before I chickened out? I'd most certainly use this experience during my next breakdown, pushing myself closer and closer to that invisible line. I wondered dryly, as I raked the glass against wrist, if I'd ever cross that line. Would I die?

"Nii-san?!"

My head whipped to the side, praying to myself, wishing that I'd truly lost my rocks and was hearing things. However, I was still as sane as I could be in that moment, with my brother standing motionless in the bathroom doorway. His arm was out, hand hovering just in front of the door, signaling to me that he'd just pushed it open. He was in his Exorcist uniform, a closed umbrella clutched in his other hand. My eyes wandered up to his face, dreading the outcome of this situation.

He was stock still, mouth gaping. He'd gone absolutely white, paler than a ghost. And his teal eyes shined with fear and confusion. He had probably expected me to be sleeping, or taking a shower. I could only imagine the wreck his brain was, looking at his older brother as he slit his wrists. This was traumatic as hell.

I turned away from him, "I-I broke your picture frame," I said softly, my tone guarded. "The photo inside got damaged. I'm so sorry."

There was silence again, and I was beginning to wonder if he was even there. Hesitantly, my eyes wandered back to where he stood. He still had the same dumbfounded expression, but then his arm fell from the door. There was a loud thud as the umbrella hit the hardwood. His feet moved passed the threshold and his shoes tapped against the tile as he neared me. His face didn't change as he knelt next to the tub.

I found myself ashamed under his gaze, turning my head and watching as blood continued to drip at a slow methodical pace. "Oh, Nii-san..." he whispered, his voice wavering. "I can only think to ask 'what have you done,' but that seems fairly obvious." He was silent again and the anxiety in my chest was growing.

"Go away." I stated quietly, but he had no intention of leaving. I felt his hands on mine, his fingers were chilly compared to my heated flesh. He pried the shard of glass out of my grip and I heard him put it somewhere behind him. Then, I felt him hook his hand under the crook of my elbow, but I yanked away from him. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged myself tightly. "Please, go away." I pleaded, I just wanted to be alone with these emotions. Let me handle them by myself.

"No," he said firmly, "you're injured, let me help you."

I was still for a moment before I relented, holding out my hand for him. There was no use arguing with him, I'd only lose. He gently pulled me to my feet, and despite the blood loss, I was fairly balanced. I raised my feet, one after another, and stepped over the side of the tub. Yukio pushed me down with the same light touch, having me sit on the same ledge. I turned in my spot, glancing over my shoulder at the mess I'd created. Blood from my boxers seeped far enough to smudge where I'd previously been seated, and a misshapen puddle was slowly flowing toward the drain.

I swallowed and turned to face my front, not having the heart to look at my poor twin. He was understandably distressed, but he remained silent as he wrapped toilet paper around his hand. He took the wad and gently dabbed at my skin, as the blood was wiped away, one could begin to see just how deeply I'd dug in. "Oh, Nii-san," He echoed from earlier, and I saw his hand tremble as he reached for a fresh stack of tissue.

He remained silent while he cleaned me up. His shaking the only indication of how unnerved he was. After a few minutes of dabbing at my injuries, and a pile of bloodied paper, he whispered to himself; "I'm not prepared for this." He set the tissues he'd been holding down and sat there, face downcast.

"Leave me," I said lowly, "I can clean up."

He released a breath, almost like an airy laugh, "I'm sure you could." His fingers reached out and traced over the skin of my left leg. It, too, was stained, but it was unharmed. He glided over my previous scars, like I had earlier. However, when my fingers traced them, it was no different than the last time I'd run my hand over them. He, on the other hand, never experienced the dips and bumps of those scars, and I saw him flinch after passing over a particularly deep blemish. He leaned back for a second before standing up. He turned around and fished a phone out of his pocket.

"What are you doing?" My tone was troubled and urgent, causing him to pause.

"Calling someone."

A chill flashed through me as he flipped open his phone and began dialing. "No!" I cried, standing up and reaching out to snatch the offending device. He quickly shifted so that he held the phone away from me, pushing my shoulder back. "You can't tell anyone, Yukio! Please, don't tell anybody." Desperation laced my every word and I felt myself beginning to unravel.

Pain flashed behind his eyes and he looked away from me, "you can't possibly expect me to keep to myself about this." I deplored him, pleading to the point that my voice broke. He couldn't let this get out, this had to be silent. "I can't patch you up the way you are, Rin. An despite what you say, I doubt you'd do a good job. This is beyond us, Nii-san." He turned to give me a firm look, a stern resolve in his eyes. "Sit down. It'll be okay."

My mouth opened, but no words fell out. I stumbled backward and sat down on the ledge once again. Only then did he bring the phone back, his thumb hitting the dial button before he pressed it to his ear. I tried to plead with him one last time, but I couldn't, only a strangled sound escaped my throat. Yukio threw a concerned look my way before I heard the other end pick up. My twin turn his back to me, exiting into the bedroom.

My eyes welled with tears and another strangled sound erupted from my chest. It wouldn't be okay. He didn't understand. It would never get better. The only thing that helped me was the pain, and he wanted to take that away.