Tristan laid on his bed, watching whatever he could see of the night sky through the grimy window above him. He was just as filthy; staining whatever heavenly beauty his eternal soul held, with the desires on his mind. Not just that, he'd disgraced his surroundings with it too. 

With a soft sigh he rolled over, and looked at the wall. He didn't want to think about any of it, he didn't want to be disgusted by himself and scared of whatever hellish punishment it meant: he just wanted to fall asleep. Instead he got stuck with all these worries, only for wanting to feel good.

Inevitably his gaze fell to his wrists instead. In the dark he could discern a few recent scratches that were scabbed over, whilst an older, deeper cut had been covered by pale, pink skin. His thoughts darted to the scissors in his bag; and how he could ram it deep into his arms to make it all go away. Then he wouldn't have to fear hell again, as long as he lived.

I'm sorry. He didn't know if God could hear his thoughts, or if He would see the tears running down his face and take pity on him. I don't want to be like this, I know it's wrong. All he could do was hope that a friendly gesture came down. That in his soul he'd feel that glow of certainty that told him he could be redeemed if only he repented. That an invisible hand would wipe away his tears and tell him things would be alright.

It was quiet. And he felt nothing. Just hollow, and tired. Fear that he hadn't believed well enough ached in his chest: that he'd upset God by being disgusting, by being inadequate. Perhaps this was a test, and eventually the silence would lift and he'd see or hear or feel or anything. Anything other than this. Please let me know there's something. That this isn't it.

He waited, and waited, trying desperately not to cry. A mouse scurried about in a distant corner, and a part of him wanted to latch on to it. To see it as some sign – but if it was, he didn't know what it meant. That he had to be patient, and wait for his moment to come out? That he'd have to live the rest of his life scared and afraid hiding in the dark from others because he was revolting to witness? That at any point something bigger and stronger could come along to tear him apart? And if he had to be torn apart then why was it a sin when he tore into himself. He had to wait until his mother beat him to death so he could go to heaven, but if he jumped off of a bridge he'd go to hell. And that was if it was a sign, but deep inside he knew it was just a bloody mouse.

Angry and agitated he sat up, and pushed himself off of the bed. He was frustrated; at himself for thinking such awful things; for getting himself into this position; at the pain and hunger he still felt and how focking lost he was. Locked in his room with nothing but books and beatings and prayers that weren't answered. Unseen and stuck, and nobody seemed to care. He couldn't even relieve himself.

In an attempt to give himself something to do, he paced back and forth. He needed a distraction. He bit on the side of his finger, trying to placate the feelings by hurting himself. Even when his teeth left indents, and he groaned whilst trying to bite down harder than his body let him, it wasn't enough. It just made him feel even angrier.

A part of him knew that what he was doing was extreme. That touching himself didn't deserve this, but there was no way out of this feeling of guilt. He tried to think of other things: of doing homework, of friends he'd talk to at school, of taking care of Anya, yet his thoughts kept circling back. He hadn't done all his homework yet, and that deserved punishment. His friends would be worried if he did, and he deserved punishment for only thinking about himself. He was a horrible brother for not making sure Anya had something better than this.

Frustrated and desperate, he dug through his backpack. His fingers found the cold metal of the scissors, and he held it for a moment without taking it out. There was the possibility to let go and not do it – but deep inside he knew he couldn't. Whatever he'd do, the dark thoughts would keep coming. The only way he could get rid of it was by hurting himself.

He pulled the scissors out, and sat down on his bed. For a moment he held them in his hands, hesitant because it would still hurt. The feelings and thoughts just hurt more.

He laid his wrist on his knee, and opened the scissors. The cold metal pressed against his skin, and he closed his eyes. He dragged the dull edge along his wrist, and gritted his teeth as his skin chafed and broke. It wasn't enough, and now he'd done it once, he wanted all of it to go away.

Enraged with himself, with his thoughts, with everything he went through, he pulled the scissors down again. Again. Harder. It hurt. The pain drove all his thoughts out. Again. He groaned as he felt the snaps of flesh tearing. Heavy drops of liquid hit the wooden floorboards.

He opened his eyes, and watched as dark blood trickled from the raw wound. It ached, but there was a sort of sick relief that followed. He didn't stop it. All of his evil had to spill out first.

It wasn't all that different from pleasuring himself. Heavy emotions, and then satisfaction as something bad left him. Only to be left with stains and guilt. He didn't feel better, just tired and a little less bad.

The bleeding lessened and he slowly sank to the floor on his knees. He stared at the ceiling, and softly whispered for forgiveness – for all of it. Maybe everything about this was his punishment. If he truly did everything wrong that meant there had to exist something he could do right, even if he didn't know what it was. Then there was a way out of this. 

He repeated the prayer, over and over but all that ever changed were the tears that formed in his eyes as he realised nothing would answer him. He went quiet again. He stared at the ceiling and waited, tears slowly running down his cheeks as he tried to figure out what it meant. 

Why would God not speak to him, when He seemed to speak so much to his mother, even when she beat him. He had to speak to his grandparents, they still believed, and surely his father on some level was certain. So why wasn't he? If he was irredeemable then what did it all matter? And if God wasn't real, then all this was for nothing. All the praying and begging and punishment was for nothing.

He let his head fall forward and softly sobbed, pushing his wrist to his chest and clasping it tightly. Please. Please tell me this isn't for nothing. If I'm evil… then just punish me forever. But please don't let it be for nothing. The mere idea frightened him, and he felt his chest squeeze tightly until it hurt. He took rapid, shallow breaths, rocking himself back and forth in the same pace as he tried desperately to find a way where it all made sense. 

Even when deep inside he knew the only thing that would ever answer was nothing, he wasn't ready for that. He couldn't bear all these beatings in the knowledge that there was absolutely no reason for them. That there wasn't even a cruelty to it that made sense, just delusions and empty apathy. 

But he couldn't die either. If there was no God watching over Anya, then she only had him. He had to care for her. He had to find some way out so she could be happy. The only way he knew how was to simply keep going. To take all the beatings, to study as much as he could and find a job. For her, if not for his soul then for her. Even if that made him bad, even if that meant he'd go to hell. There was no way to win.

His breaths got narrower, and narrower, until he was gasping. But that was alright. He liked the lack of air, it made it hard to think. Through his shallow inhales he let out a short, panicked laugh. It startled the mouse. 

He grasped his waist, and gladly let himself hyperventilate. Forcing his breaths to get faster and faster, just to get it all over with. He didn't want to feel disgusting and hurt anymore. Didn't want to be uncertain. Angry with himself he shook his head, ashamed as he'd done it all over again. 

The world got narrower. His thoughts faint. He fell forward and laid there hyperventilating. Things went dark. Darker than the room already was. Maybe he dreamt, he didn't really know.

When he opened his eyes again, his chest hurt, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat. He coughed and groaned. Something small darted by him in the dark, startling him. Dazed he sat up. He was tired, and every breath he took was sore and difficult. 

As he moved, his joints hurt. Somehow he felt feverish, even when he hadn't before. Blood had dried on his wrist and chest. He frowned deeply and resisted the urge to cry. Instead he stumbled towards his bed, and crawled underneath the covers. His body was heavy, and flashes of heat coarsed through him, followed by cold sweat. Even in his dreams that sickness followed him.