Work Text:
icthy·le·pi·tillo·ma·ni·a
/ˌɪkθəˌˈlɛ.pi.tilːoˌmānēə/
noun
a compulsive desire to pull out one's scales.
from Greek ichthys or ichthus ‘fish’ + lepis/lepido ‘scale’ + tillein ‘pull out’ + English mania ‘denoting a specified type of mental abnormality or obsession’.
—
Slender fingers caressed the base of his tail directly above the caudal fin—smooth, repetitive movements allowing Sixty to map the planes and ridges of his overlapping scales. He wasn’t going to pull any; all he wanted was to touch, to tease... just to feel. Not pull. No. He promised Connor and Nines he wouldn’t do it anymore.
Sixty had tried to hide the newly barren patch from his brothers as they swam down from a scavenging trip to the surface, tail undulating slowly through the darker waters of the deep. He knew they would notice. Knew they would say something. Knew they would ask him what was wrong. There wasn’t anything wrong. So what if the humans on the surface jeered at him every time Sixty’s naked tail broke the surface. So what if he wasn’t as agile as Connor or fast as Nines. So what if the breeding season was fast approaching and he—as in years past—didn’t have a mate. Sixty was stressed, sure, but that didn’t mean anything; stressful situations happened all the time. But of course his brothers noticed, with Connor swimming back and around to peer at Sixty’s tail with furrowed brow and worried lip. Concerned questions were met with silence and a shrug; Sixty looked away, his face burning with humiliation.
<Why are your scales missing?> I pulled them out.
<Didn’t that hurt?> Not really, no.
<Why did you do that?> I don’t know.
He did know, though. Even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself at first. Even if it was true that yes, his 'episodes' happened to coincide with periods of greater stress in Sixty’s life. Even if sometimes the first scale or two did hurt, until—as he pulled more—an incredible rush of release accompanied each burst of pain-pleasure.
More than anything, Sixty pulled out his scales because it felt good. Sometimes the pads of his fingers would hurt from where he pressed against the hard edges; sometimes the disturbed flesh of his tail would swell and ache, the coolness of the watery depths a weak balm at best. But the relief Sixty felt as he plucked each scale outweighed all of that.
He supposed it must be cathartic, in a sense—control over his own body, his own fate. Whatever the reason, all Sixty knew was that he couldn’t stop. He could refrain—or even lack the urge—for months at a time; he could redirect to another area that perhaps was less visible; he could even distract himself at times with other thoughts or activities. But, sooner or later, he would pull again.
He couldn’t explain that to Connor and Nines. They wouldn’t understand... and Sixty feared his brothers would realize he was broken—a substandard, screwed-up sibling straggling behind them through the sea. The last two merpeople to still talk to him would finally realize they were better off without him; they would leave him, and Sixty would be alone.
Sixty was overreacting. Probably.
He couldn't think over the pounding in his head, couldn't feel anything beyond the tightening of his chest. Refraining from his coping method of bodily harm was compounding his distress, not alleviating it; surely he wouldn't be begrudged this act of self-soothing.
Running his hand down his tail, Sixty moved over and between the individual scales to select which promised the best initial relief.
Ah, this one was slightly loose—Sixty wiggled it back and forth, held fast within the grip of his digits. It felt right.
With a smile, Sixty closed his eyes.
Just one wouldn't be noticeable...
He tightened his grip.
And he pulled.