• Published 1st Nov 2019
  • 1,205 Views, 24 Comments

Bad Habits - Scampy

Wallflower Blush has a bad habit, but it's really not a big deal. After all, it's her choice.

  • ...


Wallflower Blush sat in her bathroom, staring at the double-sided razor blade in her hand.

Everyone had their own vices, their own little self-destructive habits. Some people drank too much, some people smoked every day, some people did dangerous drugs... How was Wallflower’s vice any different? It was just a way to cope with stress, no more serious than someone eating too much ice cream after a bad day. It was her body, right? She had every right to do whatever she wanted to it, even if that something was damaging.

Wallflower pushed the blade against her skin, not yet sliding it in either direction. It was her choice, and it wasn’t even that big a deal. It’s not like she was hurting anyone else. It’s not like she was hurting herself seriously. It’s not like she was trying to kill herself. She was smart enough to know where not to cut, and she always took care of her wounds afterwards.

Her hand moved, just barely, and momentum took over. Wallflower felt a slight twinge, her skin splitting along the razor’s path. The spongy white flesh of her second layer of skin took a few seconds to begin bleeding, and as she stared into the cut, she used her fingers to widen it a little. Sure enough, redness bubbled up, and Wallflower sighed.

It barely even hurt anymore.

She repeated the process, drawing lines at odd angles all over her forearm. With every new cut, her slow, methodical approach became a little more haphazard and careless. Something about the apparent randomness of her cuts made her feel better about what she was doing, though it was impossible to know why.

None of the cuts were even deep, and none of them hurt any worse than the first one. Why was she even doing this? Clearly the pain wasn’t the goal, because there wasn’t any pain to feel. Some idiots may think she was doing it for attention, but she went out of her way to hide her wounds from anyone and everyone. For all the talk of people getting a ‘high’ from hurting themselves, Wallflower had yet to experience anything like that. Truthfully, she didn’t even want to.

Whatever. She didn’t need a reason. It was her choice, and if she wanted to do this, she didn’t need an excuse for herself or anyone else. She made another cut along the side of her forearm, this one more deliberately long.

Even still, it couldn’t hurt to have a back-up story. Maybe she fell into a thorny bush, or maybe she got clawed by her cat. Wallflower didn’t actually have a cat, but it’s not like anyone at school knew that. No one at school knew anything about her.

Wallflower grimaced as she slashed her forearm again. Sunset knew she didn’t have a cat. It was a twisted little mess of irony, wasn’t it? All Wallflower wanted was for someone to pay attention to her, to listen to her, to care about her. Now that she had found that in Sunset, though, all she wanted was to be left alone.

Sunset knew enough about Wallflower to know she was hiding something. She must already know Wallflower was hurting herself, too. Why else would she constantly be inviting her to hang out in the summer months? She was trying to get Wallflower to go outside, where the heat would force her to relinquish her sweater.

Sunset could act friendly as much as she wanted—Wallflower wasn’t fooled. She knew better. No one would ever want to be friends with her, let alone Sunset Shimmer. People like Sunset didn’t make time for people like her. Wallflower sliced at her arm again.

She watched for the redness that always followed the razor’s path. When it came, though, it came in a flood. For the first time since Wallflower began, a sharp, painful sensation registered. She blinked, and realized that her last cut had been far, far deeper than the others. Maybe even too deep.

Was she in danger? It happened so fast. Only a second ago, everything was normal. Was this not normal? It was still blood, just more of it. Maybe it wouldn’t bleed too much if she bandaged it up immediately.

She stood up, and immediately a thick drop of blood slid down her arm, falling to the floor and leaving a wide splatter. Her breath caught in her throat, and as her eyes returned to the deepest cut, her vision trembled.

No... No, it wasn’t her vision. The flowing blood that filled the wound was pulsing along with her ever-increasing heartbeat. The realization left her heart pounding even harder than before, and more blood seeped from the gash.

She needed to call for help, right? She needed to get the hydrogen peroxide, cover this up with a towel or something, pick up the phone and call for help. It was still bleeding so much... She was probably going to need stitches. Wallflower had never actually had stitches before, and the prospect left her all the more scared. She didn’t want stitches at all, let alone what would doubtlessly come after. Going to a hospital would mean her parents would finally find out about her cutting, and they’d make her go to a psych ward again. She’d spend a week locked up with violent jerks and druggies and lose every shred of agency she had. Nothing terrified her more.

How could this be happening? It was all normal just a minute ago. How could she have let this happen? How stupid was she? As she stood there, frozen, blood continued leaking from both ends of the cut, leaving twin trails of redness on either side. When the drops finally fell to the floor, they added to the ever-expanding mess of crimson splatters.

Wallflower could only stare, motionless aside from her shaking. The first whimper escaped her lips, and her eyes flicked up. The girl in the mirror stared back, tears sparkling on her cheeks, and suddenly Wallflower’s fear was swallowed by a fresh wave of self-loathing.

What an idiot. She couldn’t even hurt herself right.

As quickly as her whimpers came, they faded. Wallflower watched her arm in silence until the bleeding, heavy as it was, at last began to slow. Within the cut, the faintest hints of coagulation began to form.

She frowned. Now that she looked at it objectively, the cut wasn’t even that bad. It bled more than the rest, but it still wasn’t anywhere close to lethal. She could make a dozen more like it and still be perfectly safe. She’d clean it and cover it after, and it wouldn’t be any worse than any of the others.

Wallflower picked up the razor again.

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Comments ( 24 )

This was heavy, and sadly all too real for some people.

As somebody who doesn't indulge in this activity, this was an enlightening experience. I'm also impressed with how much tension and emotion you managed to pack in towards the end, so well done!

Also also, I really appreciate how much detail and background and feeling you managed to pack in (from home life, to past life, to current life, just to name a few) while still making this feel like a short real-time event

I know. Suicide doesn't end pain. It just passes it onto others.

Ouch. That last line was such a doozy, despite being so simple and understated.

That feeling when you start trying something new. How hard can it be? The feeling of discovering that you’re in way over your head. How do others get so good at it? They make it look so easy.

Finally, the feeling when you find you’re not actually that deep in, and must drastically improve your skills.

This had me feeling a little bit of anxiety throughout.

I thought she was really gonna die for a second there :fluttercry:

Nah, I would never do that to Wally.

TThe Time We Have Left
Unable to handle her anxiety without the memory stone, Wallflower Blush tries to end her life. The attempt leaves her too injured to recover, and with just hours left to live, she expects to die all alone—until Sunset Shimmer appears, asking, “Why?"
Scampy · 5.8k words  ·  174  16 · 2.3k views


Something like this ended in the first stitches and hospital trip I've had in years. It's in my past now, but thinking about it still dredges up a lot of feelings that stories like this are one of my only safe ways to address. Thank you for writing it.

I can't physically relate, but this hurt to read a bit. Solid story.

This made my skin crawl

Wow... This was really well done. Not just grammar and spelling (both of which were very on point) but the descriptions as well.

I've battled this demon for a good chunk of my life. While it's something I rarely do these days, relapses do happen on occasion if my stress levels are really high. That being said, when it comes to thoughts during and descriptions of cutting, you NAILED it. Definitely adding this to my list of well made fics.


This one, imo, came together better than the others. Like, I don't think the character innately has to be quite as self destructive as you tend to portray her...but if you're going to take that self destructiveness as axiomatic then THIS is the way to do it. Understated, low key. Indirect.

Full disclosure... When I write Wallflower doing self-destructive things, I'm usually less concerned with characterization and more with get these thoughts out of my head project project project gaaaaahhhhhhh-- Out of all my stories with her, though, the one that focuses the most on her characterization is, funnily enough, also the one where she doesn't have a history of self-harm. I'm not sure if that's one of my Wally fics that you've read, but I'll always shamelessly recommend it because I'm very proud of it and it's an important story that needs to exist, uncomfortable as it may be.

[Adult story embed hidden]

Soapboxing aside, I'm glad you enjoyed this. I don't really know much about the 'culture' surrounding self-harm, as that's never really been an impactful thing for me. In my experience, most western media portrayals of it are shallow and disrespectful, using it as a sort of "press here to insert drama" button. If nothing else, I hope my portrayals of it are at least coming across as realistic. I mean, I know they're realistic for obvious reasons, but you know what I mean.

Thanks for reading!

Big oof warning. You good? Good.

I honestly can't remember specifically when or why I started self-harming. I mean I know why--depression, abusive parent, etc etc etc--but I'm not sure why I chose self-harm over some other kind of coping mechanism. I was 14, and it was maybe a year and a half a year before my first suicide attempt, but the specifics of that entire period of time are lost to me for whatever reason. When I started hurting myself again a couple years later, there was a big fat Traumaaaaa™ I could point to as my excuse, but not the first time. Almost eleven years later, I still deal with it, and upon really close inspection I don't even know why lmao.

Reading your comment makes me wonder where I first heard about self-harming as a concept in general, cuz it's definitely not something I would have just figured out on my own. Life is weird sometimes.

With every story of yours I’ve read, it strikes me that you’ve done a huge amount of research into the topics you cover, and this one is certainly no exception. Both in terms of Wallflower’s emotional state and the physical details of her cuts, it’s clear that you’ve aimed to convey a more accurate depiction of depression and self-loathing rather than using it as a mere plot device.

That constant flitting between analysis, self-justification and spiralling trains of thought rings as painfully true, torn between wanting to feel more and wanting to feel less. And then ending on the cold note of Wallflower calming down and just staring at herself left an unpleasant taste in my mouth in the best way. That gave me a mental image that I had to stop and think about for a good while.

There’s none of the whining melodrama that’s all too easy in these types of stories, none of the one-dimensional click-here-to-add-sadness writing. What’s left is a bitter, logical, and ultimately reasonable insight into Wallflower’s justifications, borne from what comes across as a desire to see self-harming done right (and, if you’ll forgive my stalking of your blog, first-hand experience).

As little as it might mean coming from Random Internet Nobody™, I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this yourself. But you’ve certainly put your experiences to use and ultimately created one of the most respectful depictions of depression and self-harming I’ve seen on this site. Thanks for sharing.

This is the closest a fic has gotten me to vomit. This is...yikes.

Oh no, Wally Bby what you doin?

Author Interviewer

I'm stuck on her flesh being white instead of green. c.c

Doesn't exactly align with my own experience, but felt genuine regardless.

Going to a hospital would mean her parents would finally find out about her cutting, and they’d make her go to a psych ward again

Most relatable part for me.

Man, this is just heartbreaking.

Beautiful, Scampy. This is probably one of the best things I read on this topic. People always asked me why I do it and I'd always say "I don't know." Of course it's correlated to depression, but if I'm being honest, I'd be just as likely to do it enjoying a happy moment with my friends and excusing myself to the bathroom, as I would being in my bedroom wishing things would be different. Maybe I never realized I didn't know why I did it.

The behaviour is just as addicting as anything else in the world. You can stop someone from doing it but you can't stop someone from wanting to do it. I wish more people would have pitied their selves for being ignorant to their own destructive behaviours instead of shaming me for my own.

Much love to you, Scampy, hope you are staying safe in these trying times. Don't get sick on me!

Hopefully you can try stay clean! I’ve been clean for I’d say, aaaaa few days now? Maybe. Anywho, hope you’re doing well.

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