Wow...this turned out kind of dark. Like, a LOT darker than I meant for it to be. So, read with caution. ;) I absolutely recommend that you read it while listening to the song "Mad World" by Gary Jules. You just have to! ;) So, yeah, I hope that you enjoy this rather dark fic! Remember, I'm accepting prompts, so come at me. ;) Plus, I have a poll up on my story, plus I am also a beta-reader now. So please check all that out. ;) And also, life has just been so hectic, that once again, these two stories were ones that I've had written already for several days! *facepalms* Haha.

Now, let's begin, shall we? ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own this. Or any of it's awesome features.

Barry stares out his bedroom window, the dark, grey clouds fill the sky, as rain drops slowly stream down his window.

It's late.

He can tell by the way traffic is slowly going by, an even pace, as if caught in some sort of pattern...never changing. The way the rain is pattering on his window is almost calming...peaceful. He watches the clouds; it's just one solid dreary block in the sky, hovering over everybody like a bad dream.

It's been this way for a few days...as if the sun has gone and decided to never come back. There's no bright colors anymore, just dark, dull colors filling the world surrounding him. Which is the way it should be, he supposes. It would match his heart anyway.

It's almost like how the house is acting like a shelter against the storm...even though Barry knows that every home has a few leaks.

Joe is at work, Iris is at a friend's, so he's home alone. Again. Iris had tried to get him to come along, have a good time, but he couldn't. He couldn't go, and he wouldn't go. This was his only time alone...his only time to himself, where he could let his guard down.

The only time he could...

He could release some of the pain.

He tugs at his sleeves, subconsciously, pulling them down and holding them in place with his fingers. He looks back up at the sky, feeling a sense of peace as the wind blows, and the rain falls. The rain acting like tears, full of sorrow...and the trees to the wind is like his soul; bending beneath the pressure of the world. Bending, yet never breaking.

At least...not yet.

It's been going on for days, and he looks across the street, where a park rests, the swings and slides, once full of laughing and smiling kids, now empty and still. Worthless.

He notices, with a sickened swallow, but an empty feeling inside, a tree, his and Iris's favorite tree that they always had picnics under, something that would always cheer him up even when he was down, has now fallen.

He forces his eyes to look away from the broken and shattered tree. From the looks of it, it was struck by lightning. But the mere sight of it sickens Barry, and is just a reminder from the back of his mind, that things do break. Nothing and nobody can handle everything.

If it becomes too much...they will break.

Be damaged forever. He looks away from the window and finds his gaze landing on his dresser. He subconsciously tugs at his sleeves again. He'd already doe it today...he had forbidden himself from doing it again.

But...one more time wouldn't hurt, would it?

He could break his own self-made rules just this one time, right?

He nearly makes a move towards his dresser, before stopping himself. He knows that if he does it again, then he'll do it one more time each time. And it won't be long before he becomes addicted. And he had promised himself that he wouldn't.

But...would it be that bad?

Joe and Iris would never know. He has his long sleeves to thank for that.

He finds himself standing up, walking almost robotically towards his dresser, and slowly pulling it open. He pulls out a few of his shirts, and sees it. Two of it actually. One that he'd used only an hour ago, and one from the other day.

It's just lying there...still coated in a dried, scarlet color, because he didn't have time to clean it the last time he'd used it.

He remembers...Iris had come home early, and he had simply quick stuck it in his drawer, rinsing his arm and pulling down his sleeves; greeting her with a smile and asking how her day had gone.

And she had bought his smile.

His broken...empty smile.

He grabs it, not even caring about the dried blood, and closes the drawer. He moves back to his chair, and sits down, holding the knife close, as if it's his most treasured possession. And he realizes with only a small amount of shock and sickness, that it is. It's his lifeline. And he'd drown without it.

He rolls up his sleeves, ignoring the lines scarring his arms...some fresh, and red, others thin, white streaks. He presses the blade to his skin, flinching slightly at the coldness of the knife, before dragging it across his wrist; relishing in the pain and blood that blossom from the one streak.

He looks out the window, watches as the lightning skates across the sky, but it's mute. No thunder follows, and he finds it similar to his inner turmoil. It's raging inside of him, deeply and strongly, yet no sound escapes past his lips.

No cry for help or sound of pain makes it through his hollow smile and empty eyes.

He closes his eyes for a moment, biting his lips to stop the tears, because no, he was not weak. Even if everybody, excluding Iris and Joe, all claimed that he was. Deep down, he knew that they were right.

But he couldn't show them that.

That's why he waited until now to show his pain; when Joe and Iris are gone. He runs the knife across his arm again, over and over, until the sting of the pain becomes dull, and he can hardly feel it. He thinks about when he had first cut. He was a dark point...then again, he still is.

But now nobody knows that he is.

Except his inner demons.

And they feed off of it.

He remembers just needing something to release the pain. He was in ninth grade, and he had fallen one time while he was on a jog; alone. Something he had liked, and still does, to do.

He had tripped and feel down a bit of a steep hill; scraping up his knees and leg. He remembers feeling only slight pain, but had loved it because he had finally felt something over the numbness that had settled into his every fiber.

He remembers marveling at the sight of the blood streaming down his leg, not in a sadistic way, but almost in a...relieved way.

Because it proved that he was still human. He could still bleed, he could still breathe, he could still feel. He remembers going to school the next day, and overhearing something about cutting. He was intrigued by the idea, but knew that he couldn't ever possibly do that.

He couldn't disappointment Iris and Joe like that.

He was already a burden to them...he couldn't make it even worse.

They had finally stopped sending him to shrinks, and letting him go jogging on his own, or stay home alone, and he wasn't about to ruin that freedom. It wasn't until he had accidentally cut himself while shaving that he thought that he could do it and hide it from everyone.

After all, nobody even questioned the fact that he had a newfound love for long sleeves and flannel shirts at that time. The closest time that anybody had ever caught him, was one time Iris had noticed a cut on his wrist; one that he had foolishly cut to close to his hand so it was visible.

Only because he had run out of room on his arms after one specifically brutal cutting session. He had found ways around that now. Iris had found it, but had believed his lie about tripping and falling while jogging.

Which he finds humor in, because that's how it had started. He remembers taking the knife from the kitchen, believing that nobody would even miss it. And then after a while, he had decided to keep a back-up, just in case.

Now, he limits himself to how many cuts he would make on his arms. It started out as fifteen total, after he had realized just how close they had come to finding out about his addiction, when he didn't have any self-control.

Then it became ten cuts per arm, and then fifteen, and then twenty...and now it looks like he had just broken that rule. He watches the blood slowly, yet steadily stream down his arms, stuck in the same heavy pace as the cars had been. Still currently are, and will probably forever be. He's always cautious when he cuts.

Cuts.

He hates that word.

To him it sounds so..weak.

So pathetic.

Not when others do it, just when he does it. Same with the word addict. Because if anybody figured out, they'd call him that. Either look at him with disdain, or pity. And he hated it. He'd received enough of that throughout his entire life.

So instead he calls it simply a...self-release.

A way to take out his inner anguish with no one ever knowing. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the pain he believes he deserves as he cuts his other arm. He's so lost in it, he just barely hears the door open from the main floor below him.

His eyes jerk open, losing his current sense of peace, and rushes to the bathroom to wash his arms and the knife. He hears both Joe and Iris's footsteps enter the house, and hears Joe's deep baritone hollering for him.

"Be right there!" He yells back, and apparently they settle for that, because nobody comes up to get him. He hisses in pain when the water hits his fresh wounds, but ignored it because he's used to it. He can already feel himself slipping into that emotionless state of mind, that's devoid of any actual feeling besides numbness.

He throws the knife quietly into his dresser drawer and closes it silently, and slowly.

He pulls his sleeves down and glances one last time to the window and his chair, his one place, and one moment of serenity, before plastering an empty smile onto his face and heading down the steps. He greets them and they smile back, the entire time he's aware of just how fake he's acting right now.

But nobody even notices. Joe says that he brought pizza for supper, and Barry's stomach flips, but he ignores it and claims he's starved. They sit down to eat, and Iris immediately start talking about her day.

Which Barry is beyond grateful for.

He acts like he's listening, but really he doesn't hear a thing over the rushing of blood in his own had. Iris may be his best friend, but Barry knew that he couldn't tell her everything. And he knew that deep down, the knife that lay hidden in his dresser drawer is his true best friend. The one thing that releases all of his pain.

It's not healthy.

He knows that.

But there's only one thought running through his head as the rain falls outside the house, Iris speaks, and Barry's left hand clutches at the hem of his shirt underneath the table, the pain still raw...

Thank God for sleeves.

Thoughts? I'd love to know. ;)