At this point, it was habit.

The cutting.

The slicing of his own skin, crying softly at his sorrows and he relieving them with a blade. Some days it was more out of a unrelenting crave for blood he needed. Yes, as much as Loki devilishly enjoyed the pain of others, it was his he relished in most of all.

A million times over he had wished the All-Father Odin had left him on that frozen rock of a planet to die, as a newborn infant, than to live through this Hel that tore at his flesh. The Norns were cruel in that way. So, terribly cruel, that for events to succeed each other, the God of Mischief was meant to lose his heart, for him to suffer through each passing day, wanting to become completely numb and to rejoin with his daughter.

Which he would've, had his suicide attempt on the Bifrost succeeded, instead of placing him in the hands of Thanos, who in turn, gave him to the Chitauri.

The attack on Manhattan was a short reprieve, one that Loki-although persuaded, and mind bent to concede with this-delighted in.

Though for months afterward, he had woken up from many a nightmare to scream, and weep at the many lives taken, to know how awful he really was.

Loki did revel in the misery of others, but there was a very quiet conscience that cried out whenever it saw that the god had hurt yet another soul, and grabbed his heart to gather his attention. He would notice, but pushed back his acknowledgement, wanting to make himself believe this was only fate coming to hurt him again.

Right now, he sits in an apartment bathroom leaning against the tub. Hateful crimson and pale lines make their way up his forearms, new and faded, the ones made tonight currently shallow. The trickster worries he will not be able to hold back, and would nearly be unconscious again. He was on Midgard, where he had been sent off, after the stress of impersonating Odin had finally taken it's toll, and he had come clean to Thor.

The look of anguish and worse, pity, and loss of his brother on the Thunderer's face sent shocks of pain into Loki's heart every time. Thor had believed his brother dead twice over, now to be revealed in the most awful way.

"What use is my existence?" the figure with raven hair whispers to himself, as his voice is now hoarse. "Odin's purpose for me is gone now. I have no purpose but to cause pain with murder and lies." Loki's voice shakes, tears going against his wishes and down his cheeks.

He is still scared of the blade. Loki has to force himself to make those lines crossed along his wrist.

Other ways are easier. Burning is quick, but it reminds him too much of the Chitauri. The ones who had convinced him to kill those of Earth, who promised him freedom from their torture if he was triumphant.

He is afraid of fire. How far has the god of flames fallen?

The shame causes him to bring the knife across his skin. A cry pushes it's way past his lips, and he berates himself; the neighbours will hear.

It was deeper, Loki makes a note to take it easier, but knows that he won't.

He deserves this.

This knife had been gifted to him by his brother when they were young, and he laughs bitterly when he thinks of his naive self. How happy he had been when Thor brought it from one of the other countries on Asgard. For days afterward, he had admired it's ornate blade, the handle curving to fit his hand, a dark green ore making up the hilt. Runes went up it's sides, some spells forbidding it to hurt the owner, only the enemy.

Those runes were scratched out.

How disgusting it was; that a relic from his past was used for this purpose. Only another reason he didn't deserve any kindness, he would merely warp it into something awful.

His hands shake as he moves the steel nearer to the crook of his elbow. The skin is beckoning him, but his eyes hold fear. His bare chest pales in the fluorescent light. Loki grits his teeth. Why was he always so damn afraid? As stupid as Thor once was, flinging himself into battle, he was never truly afraid. A trait Loki had always hoped to gain, to show Odin that he was worthy of being king.

It was a fact he had startlingly accepted in his time masquerading as Odin. Thor was changed. No longer the warmongering brute he had followed into Jotunheim, the prince of Asgard had humbled. Spite fills Loki's chest. After all his time trying to tame Thor, one short banishment to Earth made the golden son become reasoning. That damn woman had done in a few days what Loki had been hopelessly tiring at for centuries.

That was a lie. Loki loved mischief, and toying with Thor was paradise. It didn't mean he hadn't tried. Thor had so much potential in his mind, he wanted to show him it was useful. Thor didn't listen, kept his intelligence under wraps of bloodstained battles.

Loki kept his bloodstained skin under long sleeves.

If he could even bring the damn knife to his skin, the stupid wretch.

He was sick of his cowardice.

A trickster brought a blade to his forearm.

Swift movement causes him to cry out, it was too deep, shit, i'm going to pass out.

The world tilts and comes closer to him in black and bright.

As he tries to hold on, the world dims.