WARNING: Self-harm

Ummmm...There are like a hundred things I would like to say here...but I have nothing so uhm...just, don't read if you are triggered by self-harm, mainly cutting.

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It started by accident, if you can call it that. It was his third year in middle school and his beloved team was falling apart. His friends were leaving him behind on and off the court, and the teamwork he valued so much was taking a backseat to victory, the only thing that apparently mattered anymore. His favorite sport was no longer fun. If anything, it was almost torture.

That day had been particularly bad. He had run off towards the end of practice to find Aomine after the latter stormed out of the gym. He wanted to talk to him. No. He needed to talk to him. It didn't end well. As if to mirror his inner cries, the sky began to pour buckets of rain as he headed back to the gym, where yet another disappointment awaited. The Akashi Seijuro he found in the gym when he returned was not the Akashi Seijuro he knew. Kuroko was unaware of what events transpired during his absence, but something must have gone terribly wrong. He managed to lose two friends that day. He would soon lose himself as well. His teammates weren't the only ones who were changing.

Kuroko didn't bother changing out of his wet clothes or opening his umbrella on the walk home. He didn't see the point. When he opened the front door to his house, it was quiet and dark. His grandmother was in the hospital again and his parents were rarely ever home. Usually, he minded, but not this time. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to see anyone. He certainly didn't want to fake being okay for anyone.

He dragged his feet up the stairs to his room and finally pulled off his wet clothes. He probably should have taken a warm bath, but he opted to dry off and put on some dry clothes instead. He was about to climb into bed when his eyes caught sight of a pair of scissors open on his desk. It shouldn't have meant anything. He should have left them alone.

He didn't.

He walked over and picked them up pressing the blade against his fingers. Kuroko didn't know why he thought of it in that moment and never before, but he remembered a kid who used to cut himself with scissors. Supposedly it made him feel better.

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Decisions should never be made when one is angry or depressed. Too bad Kuroko would learn that lesson a little too late. Wiping the tears from his eyes first, he pressed the blade of the scissors against his wrist and pulled it across.

The cut was thin. Only a few small beads of blood seeped through the crack in the skin, but the relief was intoxicating. It was small, but he wanted more. So, he drew a few more lines on his skin. A few more drops of blood oozed out. That kid was right. He was still upset, but he felt better, calmer. He laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling unaware of the tiny smile creasing his lips.

Kuroko never intended to do it again. When he woke up the next day, he regretted his decision. It was impulsive and he knew it was wrong. He made a promise. He promised himself he would never cut again. Then he put on his wristbands to hide the cuts and went to school.

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He broke the promise.

Only a week later, he was crying in his room again and brought the scissors to his wrist. Again, the cuts were thin and shallow barely drawing any blood, but it was enough.

However it wasn't enough for long. Two months passed and he was cutting at least twice a week. Sometimes he used his wrists and other times he used his hip. It felt better on the wrist, but space was limited. But the shallow cuts stopped providing relief. It was as if he had grown immune to them. He went to the hardware store and bought a box cutter with extra blades. He didn't want to look suspicious, so he bought a hammer and nails as well.

That night he cut with a razor. At this point, he knew he was addicted, but he didn't care. The euphoria was keeping him sane. It was allowing him some peace which he desperately needed as things with his teammates and friends continued to spiral downhill. There were no more promises of quitting now.

The cutting became more frequent.

Watching his teammates patronize other teams and beat them as though it were a joke was more than Kuroko could take. When they started having contests to see who could score most, it was too much. Then his teammates claimed they were doing exactly what he told them to. The emotions that welled up in Kuroko's heart swore to destroy him. He couldn't watch his team like this anymore. He wanted to cry and scream, to remove his emotionless mask and let out the pain within. He remained silent and expressionless even though his eyes burned with tears that threatened to spill.

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Kuroko cut before a game. He stood in the bathroom stall with the razor loosely held in his palm and stared at the scared flesh of his hip. Placing the sharp edge of the blade against an unmarked patch of skin, he dug in and pulled. The sting, the rush of endorphins, the familiar sight of blood, and the warm wet drops oozing between two flaps of previously connected skin sent a flood of relief throughout his body calming him and preparing his mind for the upcoming torture. However, that initial relief wasn't what he was after.

He made sure to bandage it well with plenty of gauze to soak up the blood and strong medical tape to hold the gauze in place. It would be a problem if the blood were to leak through his clothing, though he briefly wondered if anyone would notice. He wondered if anyone would care.

With the task done, he joined his team on the court for warm up. When the game started, it was like usual. Teiko toyed with its opponents and its opponents barely fought back. What was the point?

Kuroko watched feeling the turmoil of emotions coursing through him becoming almost unbearable. His hand drifted toward the recent wound on his hip and applied pressure till a soothing sting radiated from it. Maybe he had to watch his team beat the fight out of their opponents in cruel ways. Maybe he even had to take part of it during the second half. As long as he could press down on the wound and initiate another small flood of relief, he could endure. He did endure.

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Soon, he discovered even more effective places to cut before games. Cutting his wrist- assuming there was any available space- was more efficient than his hip and required less bandaging and worry. Even if the blood leaked through, his wristbands were black and thick. It wouldn't matter. It was also easier to grab his wrist and the sting was more potent.

Shallow cuts on his feet were his preferred method for games he knew he would play in. He didn't have to cut deep and they were easily covered. The cuts would sting with every step or shift of his foot inside his shoe providing an almost constant distraction from the hell he was forced to witness and participate in. He didn't have to go out of his way to initiate the relief either. Whereas grabbing his wrist or pressing his hand against his hip for a dose of calmness during a game was challenging, simply moving his feet was an unavoidable occurrence.

The worse his teammates acted on the court, the more he cut. And of course, whenever he was home or at school dealing with more than he could handle, the blade sought out his skin as well. And with time, the only way he felt alive was by cutting or otherwise harming himself. The only way he could deal with the onslaught of emotions and fears was by bleeding. He was addicted and he didn't want to change that. Harming himself became the only way he could live.

And it was to live. He wasn't suicidal. He never once pressed the blade against his skin with the intent to drain away his life. The blade was to sustain life, not take it. He wanted to live. He was desperate to live. This addiction was how he kept himself from dying. It was how he kept the overwhelming emotions and raw fear from tearing his body apart limb by limb till nothing remained. He courted death to avoid its wrath, or so he mused.

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Feedback/comments appreciated.