Bad Habits

by Scampy

First published

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

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

Amazing reading by Brook the Book Horse.

Rated Recommended by PresentPerfect.

Vices

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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.