This Time (England)
Title: This Time
Warnings: Sad England, kink/autoasphyxiation
Summary:What England wants, he can't have. What else is new?
Characters: England, England's Imagination
Year: For once, it doesn't matter
Well, there was no one else there, so what can you do? It never did the same thing for Arthur, to hurt himself-- he preferred a certain disconnect between the pain and the infliction. But today, he wasn't-- he wasn't quite sure who to ask. Not Francis. Not this time.
He surveyed the objects in the drawer he kept aside for such things. Not knives, today; his hands were shaking. Besides, it was-- a sharp pain, and the blood-- it wasn't what he needed. His hand lingered for a moment over a candle, and a small pack of needles... but no. He needed calm. That meant impact, or-- The drawer below; rope, and chain. He selected a short length of each, and an object that may have once served as a belt, a cut of leather worked with steal.
It was always more effective standing. He chose the chain, wrapping it tight-- tight enough to cut off the flow of blood to his face, tight enough to close his throat. First the pulsing, then the growing ache in the skin of his face. Finally the sharp pain in his lips and temples, the last warning sign before his vision would begin to grow dark. He let go, the blood rushing out of his face, a welcome tinge of dizziness prompting him to sit.
Again; the rope. It wrapped tighter, pulling against his skin, the sharp, painful pulse in his neck coming sooner, the ache in his lungs later. He closed his eyes, willing himself to wait. There. The ache--
the growing tightness, as more and more blood filled the veins of his face. He calmed himself, fighting the urge to struggle away from a foe who wasn't there. And then-- yes-- then the dizziness. He sat. It took longer to pass this time, the edges of his vision staying full of tan smoke, his heart beating fast.
The leather. It was older, this object-- many times, he had used it in this way, or it had it used. Francis-- he pushed the man from his mind. Not this time.
He lay on his back. This would be the last time, for this evening, and he didn't want to fall. He held the ends, preparing himself, slowing his breathing. He pulled.
His heart rate sped. His hands twitched with the desire to let go. This time when his vision changed, he saw it as gray swirls against the red-brown of the back of his eyelids; they spread, changed, and still he didn't let himself loosen the leather. He thought he heard a voice, and started, letting go and opening his eyes-- but the room was empty.
He took a deep breath. It never did the same thing for Arthur, to hurt himself-- all too often, it left him feeling nothing but vaguely dirty, and alone.