Chapter Text
Strawberry couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Pure Vanilla. She and the other two had been busy, sure, but it was like he'd completely disappeared off the face of Earthbread. Wizard wouldn't tell either of them a thing Pure Vanilla had told him, and she wasn't completely convinced he hadn't just not bothered to talk to him and was just pretending he had and 'didn't want to tell anyone'. She and Gingerbrave hadn't seen him for at least twelve days- some cookies had claimed to have seen him but none gave overly positive sides of the story. They kept recounting nothing but how panicked he'd always seemed, how he never quite seemed focused, and worst of all, how much he seemed to like sitting on the edge of high balconies he couldn't survive a fall from.
Taking things into her own hands, she'd decided she had to check on him herself. They were only really here because they were supposed to be his company or something- though from the start he'd seemed unenthusiastic. Not to say he didn't like them anymore- she was sure he did, he probably had his reasons for disappearing for the last two weeks without a word of apology or an excuse since- but he wasn't making it easy to believe in him.
She quietly creaked the door open to his bedroom- the exact place Gingerbrave claimed he couldn't find him. She was being quiet, just a precaution from the little info she'd squeezed out of Black Raisin- according to her, he needed sleep. As much as she wanted to check up on him, she didn't really want to wake him up- not after how that had gone last time.
Fortunately, he was awake. Unfortunately, he clearly wasn't in the condition to be disturbed.
He was standing in front of a floor length mirror, staring into his own eyes like he expected himself to start talking to him. Jam was flowing down his wrists, staining his sleeves and dripping onto the floor like a burning scarlet river. A rusted razorblade sat in one hand, pressed firmly against his wrist. The scars that still hadn't faded ran in rows down his forearms, so many cuts that they almost seemed to blur into each other, making it look like his entire arm was just one large matted scar.
She stifled a gasp. She didn’t dare enter, but it didn’t feel right to just leave, seeing what he was doing. She couldn't help but watch, hoping he might suddenly stop, realise what he was doing, and tend to his wounds.
But he didn't.
Of course he didn't.
He knew what he was doing.
This was exactly what he wanted to be doing.
Tears were running down his face, but he seemed more angry than saddened. He slashed the blade across his arm, splattering more jam across the floor in long smears, but barely even flinched at what should've hurt like he’d poured acid straight onto the cuts- it was like he hadn't even made the slightest cut, let alone a deep gash along his arm. He kept twisting the blade in his hands, deep in thought.
"This doesn't hurt." His hand tightened over the blade, slicing into his hand. "This doesn't hurt anymore." The tears in his eyes mixed with the jam. He pressed the blade up to the mirror, scratching on his reflections, etching a cross over his face.
He was muttering to himself like he might've truly gone insane. She took in a sharp breath, and for a moment he froze, and she moved back so he wouldn't notice her. His entire body shook as he turned to glare at the door, shoulders tense as he scanned for movement like a hawk. He eventually decided it was nothing, letting out a shaky sigh before he turned back to the mirror.
His voice had descended almost into a whisper, like even his voice was giving up. "It's nothing, it's nothing." He placed his hands, still sticky with jam, on either side of his head- he clearly didn't care anymore about anyone noticing- or at least, not anyone who might've been watching him right now. If anything, it was like he wanted someome to know- to hear his cries and do something. He was either seeking attention, or in a much more likely scenario; he wanted to be shamed. Like he wanted everyone to hate him for what he was doing.
"I need to cut something else. This isn't enough." He smeared half-dried jam across his entire hand as he twisted the blade absent-mindedly, eyes gliding over his body, searching for somewhere to cut. He was torn between his desire to hide everything- to smile and laugh and pretend it wasn't a mask- and to show everyone, to prove to everyone, that there was no 'fixing' him. To somehow prove they were wasting their time on a lost cause.
He locked eyes with the dim pulsing light of his own souljam, gently holding the blade up to it. If he really wanted to, he could slice the thing to pieces. Be done with all of this. But he didn't. HIs eyes glided right over, to cut somewhere less.. fatal.
How spineless. He should've just finished himself off.
His eyes eventually settled on his shoulders- they were almost always covered by his dress, and no one would ever check there. No one would ever accidentally notice cuts on his shoulders.
That was what he wanted, right?
To hide.
How cowardly.
He pulled the neckline on his dress down, revealing one pale untouched shoulder. He pressed the cold blade against his skin, letting jam dribble from the cut. His hands, however, were shaky and unstable, and he quickly realised he'd cut deeper than he'd intended- the trickle of jam had become a river that stained the clothing of the shirt and got onto the top of his cloak.
He never usually healed these cuts, but... this wouldn't go unnoticed.
He pressed his staff to his shoulder, dough slowly closing over the cut, but that didn't erase the jam stains across his entire shoulder. His robes were white- there was no way that was ever fully coming out.
Good.
He needed a proper reminder.
Strawberry gasped, unable to help herself from bring so shocked at what he was doing. His head flicked over to the door, and he dropped the blade to investigate the noise. His hands, though tightly cramped over his staff, were still shaking- both a feeling of pure adrenaline and fear making it impossible not to shudder.
Strawberry, realising it was too late to run down the hall- he'd notice her before she got far enough to hide- decided to duck into the nearest room, locking the door behind her. It was pitch black inside, which luckily meant she wasn't walking in on someone. The locked door didn't do much to muffle sound, so she covered her mouth so he wouldn't even hear her breathing. She didn't know what he might do if he found her, but she wasn't thrilled to find out.
She heard his footsteps draw closer, breathing heavily as he practically dragged himself outside. He went silent for a moment, waiting to hear the sound again.
"Witches... I think I'm going insane. Hearing things..." His footsteps padded back and forth down the hallway, and he kept muttering quietly to himself. He had a hand on either forearm, nails digging into his sleeves, breathing heavily.
Strawberry barely moved a milimeter in case he heard her on the other side of the door- one sneeze and it would be all over.
She couldn't see him, but she could hear what sounded like sobbing. She finally heard his footsteps retreat- though not back into his room. It sounded like he was running back down the hall, away from his room.
She creaked the door open a crack, checking if it was safe to come out. He was gone, the only evidence that he had been there being smears of scarlet jam across the floor of both his room and some of the hallway. She carefully stepped over the jam, too disgusted to risk touching it.
His room looked practically untouched- aside from the bed, everything still had a thin layer on dust scattered over it. He clearly hadn't gotten much use of the place. The blade still sat in the middle of the spilled jam- abandoned on the floor. She hesitantly took it, planning on getting rid of the cursed thing later, smearing the slightest drop of his jam onto her hand. It felt like the jam was burning into her skin as if it was acid.
She wiped it off on her hoodie. It felt so wrong to be here. Not just because of the jam; she didn't think she'd ever be able to look at this room- or Pure Vanilla himself- the same way after this. Not without thinking of what she'd seen.
Pure Vanilla ran away from his room- and the guilt he wanted to leave behind- with tears in his eyes. There were still stains across his white clothing he was sure wouldn't come out, but he didn't even care anymore. He wanted to find someone. Someone to apologise to for not being able to get better. For not being able to resist. For not being strong enough.
The light of his souljam flickered unnoticeably.