Chapter Text
It was a stressful day at work to say the least.
Brett hung his keys by the door before kneeling to undo his laces. He placed them neatly by the entrance and headed to his bedroom. He took off his suit jacket and undid his tie. He removed what remained of his outfit and changed into comfy clothes that consisted of boxers and a slightly oversized hoodie from his years at Yale.
It seemed as though as soon as he exited his work clothes, his smile faded. He rubbed his sore cheeks that constantly worked overtime to uphold his cheery disposition.
He was hurting. The stress of the job hurt. The stress of his childhood hurt. The constant pleasing of people, the desperation to be useful, to be liked, hurt. It was exhausting and he was tired. But he couldn't sleep with all that tension inside. He has discovered a way to release some of it. A way to let it go. Was it healthy? No, of course not. But it kept him alive so far.
He shuffled to the bathroom, closing the door behind.
He lived alone, but still, he felt some guilt about this habit he'd picked up and would be devastated if anyone found out.
He opened the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a small Altoids tin. Inside were small blades of various origins, some alcohol prep pads, and a band aid or two. He sat in the tub and put the tin on the edge. He picked through them until he found the blade he wanted and pushed up his boxers.
Contrary to popular belief, there were no tears, no crying. He was completely calm, completely at ease. It was just second nature at this point, muscle memory if you will.
He felt the grooves on his thigh. Stroking them made him feel calm, it was therapeutic in a way. He looked at them briefly before making marks in his skin. He fell into an almost rhythmic motion as he did so. Brett carried on like that for a few minutes before stopping to observe. Blood beaded on the lines before they spilled down the side of his thighs and into the tub.
His mind went blank with concentration. So blank in fact, that he failed to hear his phone ringing from the other room.
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It was Regan. There was an emergency at work and, as her right hand man, needed him to come back, stat.
She called a few times and got no response. Reagan furrowed her brows and pressed her phone to her mouth in contemplation.
"Jesus Regan, what's got you so pissed?"
"Oh fuck off Myc. I'm not pissed…" her anger turned to worry as the phone continued to ring. He never ignored her calls for this long.
Myc could feel her anxiety from across the room.
"I'm sure he's fine, he's Brett! That idiot is always excited about something. Probably too busy kissing the ass of another father figure to answer."
"Stay out of my head Myc." She sighed.
"God, if you're so worried why don't you go get him then?"
She had already thought of that. But, a part of her feared she was overreacting.
"Fuck it" She thought. She needed him here, and needed a clear conscience to work. Whatever he was up to would have to wait, work came first. After all, the world was at stake.
"Just sit tight, I'm going to go get him. We need all hands on deck."
She hopped in her car, turned the keys slightly annoyed and drove to Brett's.
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Brett zoned out as he watched blood roll down his thighs. He stared at the cuts. He thought about, well, everything. His mind, once calm, now wouldn't shut the hell up. It felt like a really bad orchestra was playing in his head. His anger and frustration built. All his emotions flooded in at once. In a moment of overstimulation, he made one strong, swift cut, eyes closed.
He kept his eyes closed, suspended in darkness. Until he felt an unusually large flow of blood down the side of this thigh. He opened his eyes and looked down. He didn't even know what he was looking at, If it was real, if he was just imagining it. But it was real, really big, and really bad. He stared at the exposed fat layer within the unusually large cut he had made.
He was in shock for a moment, trying to process his newfound reality. Then it set in, and with it all the emotions flooded back.
He gasped, almost choking on air. His face grew paler than Glenns as he tried to fight his nausea. He dropped the blade in the blood at the bottom of the tub. His limbs felt weak and shaky like a newborn deer. He propped himself up on the edge of the tub, knocking the tin of blades out of his way.
"Fuck, fuck…" he spoke quietly to himself.
His heart punched at his chest from the inside and he could feel it beat in his throat, his ears, his stomach too. Like an alarm, it rang. He forced himself to stand, enduring wave after wave of dizziness.
What the fuck is happening He thought to himself.
What was indeed happening was, he was going to faint. He did not want to faint, but his body didn't give a fuck what he wanted. He was paying the price for his impulsivity.
He climbed out of the tub, limping. Blood flowed down his leg and onto the floor. He gripped the sink to steady himself and turned on the faucet. He flung ice cold water onto his face. It didn't help. His face felt hot and as though his ears were stuffed with cotton. He lowered himself into the floor, cautious of his leg. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He didn't fight it, he was tired.