Work Text:
Lamorak stared, eyes unfocused. In the bathroom mirror he sees someone stare back at him, ugly scars which matched their hideous form.
His hand clutched the blade in his hand as if it were his lifeline. This was for…research purposes! Yeah, this was for the greater good! He could keep telling himself so, maybe it would make everything seem better.
With trembling hands, he pressed the scalpel against forearm. He took a deep breath before making a clean cut, watching the blood slowly ooze out. He stared for a moment, distracted by the bright crimson before the pain finally registered.
He put the scalpel down, with a hand pressed onto the wound he began forcing magic through. With a wound like this…he began subconsciously clenching his teeth, pushing through the pain.
He swallowed, breathing hard as he dropped his hands.
I don't get it…
He bit his bottom lip, the feeling of wanting to cry bubbled in his eyes. A bleeding wound would just keep bleeding no matter what. If he couldn't even close a wound this small with ease then what was he good for? The feeling of frustration and failure etched into his body. He lifted his wounded hand, the pulsating sensation hurt. It always does yet…this was necessary for growth. His mother lost her life because of his failure. He can afford to hurt for a bit, he needs to do this.
He wanted to scream, cry even and if he dreams hard enough, maybe he’ll be back in his mother’s warm loving embrace.
He can continue to lie and say this was for bettering his magic, although it will never be the truth. It probably was when he first started, he doesn't know when it started being a replacement for getting his pent up emotions out.
There was no reason for him to pick up the scalpel again, no reason for more marks on his skin. This was never about testing his healing magic huh?
He dropped the blade, clutching his arm with his clean hand as the pain increased. Staring at the red liquid, he was almost tempted to try again.
…He was setting himself up for disappointment.
He gently wiped away the blood with a tissue. Blowing out some air through his mouth, he put his clean hand over the wounds again and closed his eyes. He’d concentrate and recite the same spells over and over and wish that when he opened his eyes, a clean wound-free arm would stare back at him.
But alas, even as sweat built up in his body and tears welled up in his eyes, more blood continued to leak from the cuts. He blinked away the tears, watching his efforts turn fruitless yet again.
Maybe another day, he’d tell himself. Try to convince himself that maybe he will figure it out in another few months despite feeling as though he has never improved at all.
Another day…
He pressed another tissue against his wounds as he dressed them.
...My chest hurts…