It wasn't what I expected. Not at all.

I was expecting crying and screaming and pain and blood and—

Well, there was blood. But the rest…

The first time I hurt myself, I was numb. I didn't feel it. I could see it, the blade dancing across my skin, leaving behind little red droplets. But I didn't really feel it. Not like I thought I would.

Part of me was angry because I didn't want this to become who I was. I had seen pictures, people, with big, angry cuts and white feathery scars that tattooed their wrists or thighs or whatever. I didn't want that to be me…it wasn't me. And then one day, it was.

The first time I hurt myself, it was easy enough to hide. I threw on some bracelets, or old wristbands that I found. It was simple. No one really noticed what lay underneath, and if they did, they didn't say anything.

I don't really know what happened, why I did it. I just found a blade and got curious. That seems to be my hamartia, my curiosity. So I tried it. I cut. Once. Twice. Three times. I saw the blood peek out from underneath my skin. I thought I would cry, or scream, or get pissed but I didn't. I smiled. I fucking smiled. Because it fucking worked. I did it again, this time drawing more blood. I watched as it ran down my wrist, satisfied. I put the blade somewhere no one could find it, and went to brush my teeth as if everything was normal, as if I wasn't bleeding underneath these bracelets.

At school the next day, Scott made a face when he saw me. Smelled me. Smelled the blood. He didn't say anything. I smiled at him, like I was fucking proud of myself, and we went to first period as if everything was normal, as if I hadn't split my skin open last night.

It was sore. My wrist was sore. But it was good. To me, it meant I must have had done something right. It was funny. I didn't think I wanted to do it again after last night, but it was all I could think about. I simulated the pain by pressing my fingernails into my wrist. The shocks of pain made my eyes prick with tears. And I smiled, welcoming them. I went home that day and took the blade out of its hiding place. I looked at it, studied it, smiled like it was an old friend. I sliced a line across my wrist. Instantly, little bubbles of red appeared and I laughed. I was bleeding and it stung and I was literally ripping myself apart but I was laughing because I was in control. Me. I had the control, power, to hurt something, someone, who actually deserved it. All those hours and days and weeks, stuck behind the Nogitsune, watching as it tore people apart, people who didn't need to be hurt, who didn't deserve to be murdered. It controlled me, it owned me. And now…

Now I control me. I own me. No one else. Me.

And maybe that's why I was doing this. Maybe I craved control, and power, maybe I was just as bad as Peter, maybe I was worse. But I liked it. I like the pain, the little shocks of electricity that run through my body every time I make another cut. I like the freedom, the liberation that comes with opening up my skin to let the bad stuff out. The bad blood. The bad spirit. The bad Stiles. I'm just trying to get him out for good. But he won't let me.

Of course it was Scott. He had to be the one to catch on, to see the little lines that snuck out from under my sweatshirt sleeve for a spilt second. It had to be him. Of fucking course.

He saw the cuts at school, during last period. I had gone nearly the entire day without incident, with bringing any attention to myself. And then it happened.

"Dude." Was the first thing he said. "Are those—are you…" his eyes widened in realization. "Stiles—"

"Scott, don't—"

"I won't. But dude unless you tell me otherwise right now, I'm coming over tonight."

I didn't say anything.

Why the fuck didn't I say anything?