A long trail of smoke left the singer's lips as he exhaled, staring intently at the burning tip of his cigarette with dead eyes. Leaning on the banister, he gently pulled up his sleeve, sticking the fag back between his lips.

The flesh that his long-sleeved shirt had previously covered was riddled with various injuries, some covered with plasters like the scratch on his cheek, some almost healed.

He had bruises, big, black and purple ones, he had tiny cuts, little scrapes, grazes on his elbows and at least 5 straight, white, healing lines just under his wrist.

The most prominent of his injuries had to be the burns, however.

Some had plasters hap-hazardly placed ontop of them, though they were quite unecessary. Some were scarred over, like little holes in his skin. None were particularly fresh- but a few had yet to heal over properly, trapping whatever cigarette debris had been caught in the wound inside his skin. He never cleaned out his self-inflicted wounds properly, if at all.

2D let a sigh act as an exhale as he plucked the damn cancer stick from his lips. A clean surface of his skin was almost inviting to the gently glowing tip- his only source of light on the dark balcony.

But the burning wasn't yet so close to the filter that he'd actually waste the rest of his cigarette. He wasn't stalling- oh no, he just had a bit more sense than to waste so much on himself.

A few more long, comfortable drags had the cigarette down low enough for 2D to decide that it was around the perfect length for what he was about to do. He had done it so many times already, he didn't require tears to express his hurt. It was just pain to him now- a distraction from his own horribly prominent stupidity.

In fact, it had been a while since Murdoc had last taken his anger out on D, though there were always heavy bruises on his arms, legs and torso. Usually the ones on his legs tended to be his own fault- crashing into things, stubbing his toes, banging his various limbs against sharp corners (usually keyboards.)

And now? Now he had started purposfully influcting his own pain. He had begun wearing longer-sleeved shirts more often, he slept less then the limited amount of time he usually slept, he barely even interacted with anyone anymore.

Nobody knew what he was doing- he supposed no one really cared.

A hiss made its way through clenched teeth as the burning tip touched his skin, creating a sickly sizzling sound as he ground it in further. The light slowly went out, but little to no blood was left. 2D honestly didn't give a shit about any blood anyway. Tossing the cigarette over the balcony, the singer stared at the angry, red skin, letting the pain and adrenaline wash over him, bluntly clearing his mind.

His painkillers are only for his migranes, and he's labelled them that. No matter how much pain he inflicts on himself, he won't use his painkillers for it. Even if he enjoys the feeling of numbness. To him, it's a debaitable way to clear his head of thoughts and unwanted memories: wait for a migrane and down 20 pills, or slash, burn, tear at and damage skin.

But he never really was a very patient boy.