Burning, searing, cleansing pain erupts as the cells in the skin of my forearm split open. Crimson liquid swells up and runs down my arm. Delicious agony swims through my veins.
Everyone calls me the joker, but I don't laugh when I'm alone. Funny, friendly, outgoing, bleeding, dying, suffocating, Bobby. Great sense of humor, with everyone but himself. Here's a funny one for you.
I cut myself.
Just to see myself bleed.
Killing vertical cuts sometimes run up and down my arm. Little stabs at other times. Man oh man how'd they laugh if they saw me like this.
No one knows.
Oh, I think a couple people suspect there's something going on. Professor X gives me "poor boy" looks and Jean's brow creases when I'm tightly shielded.
Quite obvious that there's something wrong with me.
Right, as if you hadn't figured that out by now.
Something's wired wrong in my head, pain is pleasure, and pleasure always turns into pain in the end.
Tangy, metallic scents burst through the haze in my head, leaving me looking blissfully at a deep ruby drop of blood the color of Scott's beams.
Ultimately, life begins and ends with a single drop of moisture.
Vibrations disturb the perfect tension and the drop rolls down the side of my arm and drips into the sink. What a let down.
X-men don't hurt inside, don't bleed, don't choke on the broken glass of life, don't lose hope.
Zap, the magic dies with the intercom calling me to the kitchen.
As always, I do a quick freeze to destroy the evidence before facing life again, still wishing for the bliss of my knife.