Chapter Text
Frisk examined the new bruise on her arm in the bathroom mirror. It was bad, yes, but it wasn't as bad as the other bruises left on her body. Still, it hurt.
Her eyes drifted to the floor as she cleaned the dirt from her hoodie. They kicked her, they punched her, they were bullying her. It was nothing but cruel, she thought. But it wasn't bad enough for her to tell anyone.
Maybe if they broke her arm, or maybe if they broke her nose, then it would be bad enough. But spilling drinks in her backpack or bruising her up a little clearly wasn't bad enough to burden somebody with it. Besides, she was fine. A little shaken up, but not to the point of hysteria or anything.
It's been going on for... long. Too long to remember when it actually started. Maybe three months ago? Four? She didn't count. What would be the point of it anyway?
Luckily, they didn't bruise her face. That would have been hard to hide. Or at least harder than the multitude of bruises on her entire body.
Sometimes they just called her terrible, terrible names. They mocked her, they told her things that she knew weren't true, but hearing them still made her heart ache. Sometimes, more often, they pushed her to the ground. That was almost worse than any word under the sun.
If it were a big group, they would have kicked her. If it were a little smaller group, they would have punched her. Sometimes, for fun, they made contests. Who could leave a bigger bruise? Who could make her cry harder? Whose slap will leave the most devastating mark on her already bruised body?
She was sick of it, but there was nothing she could do about it. She knew what would happen if she did tell somebody. Once, she told a teacher. The group got detention, and when the detention was over, they made her pay. She tried to tell the teachers again, but the lack of courage restrained her from doing so.
Frisk looked at her reflection in the school mirror. Her eyes were tired, her hair disheveled and dirty. Well, it wasn't so bad anyway. It wasn't as bad as the one time they bruised her to the point she couldn't move her leg.
She exited the bathroom, or so she wanted to. In the entrance, a taunting figure stopped her. It was one of them, no, three of them. Frisk took a few steps back as her eyes widened. They entered the bathroom, making sure to close the door behind.
"You look like shit," noted one of the bullies. They weren't wrong. Frisk really looked horrible. But how else would a person kicked to the ground look like? Frisk stayed silent, her nervous eyes drifting between the three of them.
"Unresponsive, eh?" said the other bully. "Talk to us, we're your friends after all!" said the one in the middle. Frisk felt a lump in her throat.
But despite herself, she summoned the courage to speak up. "Leave me alone."
The bullies exchanged taunting glances with each other. Unexpectedly, two of them yanked themselves right at Frisk. They took her by the hands and didn't seem to want to let go. "N-no! You already beat me... W-what more could you want?!" her voice cracked, her desperate attempt fell on cruel, uncaring ears.
"You must be a fucking idiot if you think we have a 'beating up per day' limit," said the one standing right in front of Frisk. She took a small, metallic blade out of her pocket. Frisk's eyes widened in shock. Is this gonna be the end? Is she really gonna die in a school bathroom?
"Gimme her arms," she said. And with a giggle, the two bullies restraining Frisk pulled her forearms in front of Frisk.
"No... no no no," she pleaded. She struggled backward, but the bullies still clung to her arms. With a swift movement, both of her sleeves were pushed up.
She felt the metal's coldness on her now exposed forearms. She could barely register anything whilst at the same time feeling everything. It was a blur of her tears and blood falling to the point she couldn't tell which one was which.
"Wh- why? No. No! No!"
.
..
...
She barely registered the grip on her wrists, finally going loose as she was left alone on the cold tiles of the bathroom. Her breath caught in uneven sobs as she could barely breathe. She blinked the tears away and stared at the forearms.
A multitude of clean cuts still bleed from her forearms. Her eyes drifted between them, one worse than the other. It looked self-inflicted, even if it wasn't. Some were slashed on top of the bruises she had before, and some were made on previously healthy skin.
She stayed like that, just staring at her forearms for a while. She tried to wrap her forearms with toilet paper, even if it was a messy blur on how she did it exactly. And not because she didn't remember, but because of the tears messing up her vision.
She secured the makeshift bandage with the tape she found in her backpack. It all hurt way more than a bruise; it was all infinitely worse than anything she had to deal with before.
But... it still wasn't a good reason to tell anyone, right? Since it looked self-inflicted. Nobody would believe that she didn't do it to herself.
When Frisk finally found a way out of the building other than the main one, she felt as if she could breathe again. Not fully, never fully. Just enough not to suffocate. Like a fish in a birdcage, and as weird as the analogy was, it fit.
She didn't really look anywhere but at her feet as she walked along the pavement, closer to the road. If she paid attention to anything else or even go as far as to dare to move her arms, she'd break. The pain was unbearable.
And she thought having a bruise was a tragedy. Clearly, a million paper cuts, or rather, blade cuts, were infinitely worse.
Still, it could be worse. It can always be worse.
As she crossed the road, she thought about what they had said to her before she kind of blacked out mentally. A 'beating up per day limit.' It sounded stupid, really. But she seriously thought they'd limit themselves to one beating per day. Childlike innocence, she supposed.
It was mainly the reason she went out the back door. Because what if they were waiting for her in the main entrance? And what if they had salt, ready to push it into her wounds?
A shiver ran down her spine. She decided not to think about it.
She clutched the straps of her backpack, hoping it'd relieve the pain. It didn't, but she didn't want to stop holding it, either way. Because with each move she made with her arms, the toilet paper and her sweater brushed against it. Not to mention the tape that stuck on the little hairs, pinching them with certain movements. That was unbearable. That was torture.
She needed proper bandages.
She knew where to get them from. Literally any convenience store. And maybe she'd buy them if all of her money wasn't stolen. She could steal bandages, but what if she got caught? She'd have to not only explain why she was stealing, but also why she was stealing bandages in particular. It wasn't a situation she was willing to risk.
She also knew that there were multiple bandages in the kitchen. Toriel brought them just in case. In case, meant stuff like oil splatters or cuts, small types of accidents that can only happen in the kitchen. Unless she was overly careful, she could never guess what Frisk would actually do with the bandages. Maybe that's for the better.
Why didn't she try again? to tell anyone. Maybe this time I'd be different-
No. It won't be. She shook that thought aside. It was stupid. Useless. Adults didn't know how to deal with things like these. And, besides. The torment would have to stop eventually. She could either switch schools, get home-schooled, or stand up for herself, or do literally anything to stop this hell.
So why didn't she?
Did she like slowly bleeding out on her way home from school? Did she like pressing on her newly formed bruises? Did she like the way they tormented her? Was she a masochist, or just a coward?
Maybe neither.