Chapter Text
Clay’s phone screen illuminates his pale face, his cheek squished between the rest of his face and his pillow. He rereads his argument with his friend and ex-girlfriend Ani as his head throbs.
I can take care of myself. I dont need you to swoop in and be my shining armor
Breath hitching as he inhales, Clay grips his phone with tight fingers. The creaking of the front door to the Outhouse disrupts the silence. Justin tries his best to muffle the whine of the door, but there’s no point — his efforts are always fruitless. The familiar creak of the door startles Justin as he pulls his hand away from the doorknob.
Clay glances towards his brother, eyebrows scrunched. Justin knows he's never sleeping; there’s no need to draw out his entry. Despite having the minute Justin provided from his cautious entrance, Clay’s never ready for the glow of his brother’s bedside lamp.
“You going to bed, Jensen?” Justin drops his blue duffle bag onto his bed, ruffling the already unmade sheets.
Stifling a quiet grunt, Clay turns to face Justin and props himself up on an arm. He shrugs. “Were you at Jess’?”
Justin nods, a large grin plastered across his face, “yep. You’re folks finally taking a vacation is, like, one of the best decisions they’ve made this year — for themselves and for me.” He pulls his blanket over his body, shifting as he settles into the mattress.
Clay nods absentmindedly, “did Mom get any hot chocolate before she left?”
“I think so,” Justin replies, preoccupied with his cellphone. “It’ll be in the house, though.”
Grabbing a discarded hoodie from the floor beside his bed, Clay pushes his blankets off him. “That’s fine,” he rasps as he pulls the hoodie over his shoulders.
“You good, Clay?” Justin’s eyes are off his cellphone, settled on Clay.
The scrawny teenager nods. “Yeah, just want some hot chocolate.” He steps into his shoes with ease, not turning around or addressing Justin until he’s at the door. “Goodnight,” Clay shouts before pushing the front door open.
“Goodnight!” Justin yells from his bed, thick blankets draped over his legs.
Wind attacks Clay’s face, nipping at the skin, as soon as the teenager steps outside. He peels his hoodie from his body, harsh air clawing at his arms, threatening to splinter pale skin. Clay resumes his path to the house as he finishes tying the sleeves of his hoodie around his waist.
Gravel crunches beneath Clay’s feet as he moves away from the Outhouse. Only dark windows await him as he approaches his house. The front steps creak under his shoes as he climbs them. Clay grabs a spare key from a hanging potted plant, sliding it into the front door’s lock as he pushes it.
He finds himself proceeding with unnecessary caution, only unlike Justin, there should be no chance that he was disturbing someone. Clay’s right — the passing shadows of trees blowing in the wind are the only motion present besides Clay’s entrance. Clay presses the light switch, immediately illuminating the space in front of him. The kitchen sits to his left, stocked with the groceries his mother was adamant about purchasing before leaving for her trip. Clay walks forward.
The squeaking of the stairs under Clay bothers him, but he persists, climbing the steps to the second floor. He wastes no time before entering his parents’ room, darting for their restroom. He opens the cabinet under the sink, only pausing his search to turn on the lights he had forgotten about. The bright restroom was easy to navigate after the first time, where he had turned bins inside and out.
Clay’s fingers are accustomed to reaching for the left side of his parents’ cabinet — the very far corner — as he grabs a pack of his mother’s unused razor blades. They’re the type you click onto the handle once the old blade’s gone dull. Clay pulls a new one from the package, the plastic encasing the blade making a popping noise as he strips it from the thin strip of metal.
Metal shines against Clay’s pale skin as it hovers over his forearm. Clay closes his eyes, curling his lips as he releases a slow breath. The sting under his wrist is soothing as Clay lightly presses the blade into his skin. He draws his hand from his arm, a thin, crimson line not permitting the presence of the blade to escape. That’s what bothered Clay the most — the evidence.
He used to despise Hannah for taking her life. Surrendering to the shit life throws at you was a path he would’ve never considered. He called her selfish, cruel, inconsiderate — anything he could — but that was then.
Clay retracted anything he said or did to denounce Hannah’s decision the first time he held a blade to his forearm. The breaking of his skin, the image of blood dripping from the incisions, the sting in his arm: they provided a comforting chill he couldn’t explain.
Clay lets blood collect on his fingers from the small incisions he carves into his arm. The bright red contrasts the pale skin in a way that distracts Clay, intriguing him. The rush puts Clay at ease, functioning as a distraction from his self-doubt and self-directed rage, but it only lasts a few seconds.
That’s not a problem, though. Clay pricks his skin again, watching as blood begins to collect over the splintered skin. Ani hasn’t crossed his mind.
Hannah solved all her problems. Shit hit the fan after her suicide, but she wasn’t there to witness it. She left everyone scrambling to solve their problems after they had wronged her, and she didn’t have to clean up for anyone.
It’s hard to save everyone. Clay knows his friends don’t always need him to, but he does. He needs to rescue them. He craves the sense of purpose and drive that a mission provides him, but the blessing brings stress, and Clay isn’t fond of it. Clay tried to save Hannah. After her passing, he regretted being unable to rescue her. He was still pissed at being unable to avenge her. She was his damsel in distress and trying to be her savior was hard, but you can’t play hero if you’re the damsel, soaking in a bath flooded with your blood, wrists slit open as your head rests behind you. Everyone else can solve their problems, and you won’t have to worry or see them struggle.
But twenty-five minutes is a while to be drinking hot chocolate.
Cool water runs over Clay’s arm, rinsing the cuts littering his skin. He presses a dry towel against them, tossing it before shoving the used blade into the pocket of his pants. Pulling his hoodie onto his body, Clay brings a hand to the light switch.
The snap of the switch doesn’t startle Clay; he knows when it’s coming. He doesn’t long to be everyone’s hero as he passes through the door frame — he wants to be the damsel.