The BLTS Archive - Paint by Number
by Midnight Topaz (ravaged_rhapsody@yahoo.com)

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Possibly AU (depending on how you interpret it)

A/N: Let me reiterate- this fic has self-injury. If this
idea is disturbing to you, do NOT read this fic. You have
been warned. Twice.

Now, then. I really have nothing to say about this fic
except the fact that I have absolutely no idea where it came
from, and hopefully it isn’t too OOC. Takes place post- 5YM.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, Paramount, or any other
entity/company involved therein.

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He counts the passage of time by the scars marring his
forearms. A day, a week, a month. . .  it matters little.
Each minute that slips away is another moment without the
cherished presence, another lost opportunity drawn into the
irretrievable past. Usually, it is a temporary escape. The
bittersweet pleasure-in-pain numbs the continual agony of an
empty mind. . .  an empty bed. . .  and an empty heart. It
all fades into fragments of memory, into frayed strands of
color and sensation. But sometimes, when the nights are
endless and his soul is cold, all the suppressed guilt and
grief and longing utterly chokes him,  overwhelms him in an
all-consuming black. . .  and he can see nothing but the
silver blade gleaming in the pale light.

With an undefined need for release, for absolution, his
unsullied flesh becomes blemished with cuts, and the cuts
widen to open gashes. In the rich, vivid scarlet, he can
clearly envision the smooth, olive tint of the
desert-roughened skin. . .  a charcoal cap of hair, so silky
and feather-soft. . .  intense, fathomless eyes of pure
mocha, expressing more than mere words ever could. . .

Blue and gold. Ice and fire. Logic and passion. Two distinct
halves creating a beautiful, unified whole.

Though the pain is harshly poignant, he craves this fragile
link to a life once lived with a fevered yearning.

Now, though. . .  now, as he stares at the crimson streaks
staining his ashen skin, he finds no peace in the subtle,
exquisite masochism that has been his refuge for so long.
Without conscious thought, he drives the blade steadily
deeper. The red flows from the wound, but his mind views
only a maelstrom of green, of blue and gold, of black and
brown. The brilliant hues twist torturously in his thoughts,
taunting him with what was and what should have been. The
beloved voice swirls about his ears, whispering seductively,
lovingly coaxing him further into the chaos.

*Come with me*.

And he smiles.

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The End