Work Text:
He cut for the first time when he was fifteen. Adachi just cracked under the stress of school, and found himself longing for some sort of stimulation other than fear and anger. So he stole one of his father’s razors, took out the blade and sliced a thin cut in his forearm. It stung horribly, blood leaking from the wound and dripping into the sink, sharp red against the bright white basin. But Adachi found the pain… liberating in some way, so he cut again, hissing from the pain. Crimson blood turned the water a cloudy pink, and it washed down the drain. With a Band-Aid on his arm and his sleeve down, nobody had a clue what he did.
His parents were fucking assholes, as were the kids at school. Despite insisting he is a guy since he was nine, Adachi’s parents never let him transition, forcing him to wear the girls’ uniform when he went to school. Cutting his own hair and hiding a binder in his shoe locker helped a bit, but not enough. Because the other kids were fucking assholes too. They knew he was trans and tormented him endlessly, the girls mocking him in the locker room and bathrooms, and the boys constantly sexually harassing him. And nobody stopped it. Add that to the horrific workload at school and the fact he had no free time and was drowning in homework, os it any wonder he cracked?
That was twelve years ago, and he still cuts. Back then, it was from being overworked. But now… it is just from boredom. He got sent to fucking Inaba as punishment for ‘bad workplace etiquette’, which everyone at the station knew was code for ‘Adachi got sick of us misgendering him, got into a fight and get sent to the boonies as punishment’, and, shit, it si so boring out in the country. He just… has nothing to do. He has no friends, nothing to entertain him at work, and… the only real feels he experiences are the jolts of pain when the strikes the razor across his skin, beads of crimson blood oozing out of the thin wounds.
He knows he is a mess, that this is an unhealthy coping mechanism, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. If he didn’t have the cutting as an outlet, who knows what awful things he might have turned to instead to cope with all this shit? Hurting himself is better than hurting others. Cutting is better than getting into fights with the people he hates. It’s easier this way. Why would he care about the pain he causes himself when he couldn’t give less of a shit about himself?
He knows he is fucked up, but nothing will change. He knows he will just keep coping by cutting, adding a new pink line to his heavily scarred arm every time he feels like shit.