Tate hadn’t done this in years. He sat in his usual corner of the basement turning the small razor in his fingers. The cold steel was practically screaming at him to use it. His heart pounded in his ears, which managed to drown out the thoughts that were making him do this in the first place. But the urge was still there. Tate bit his lip as the razor cut the tender skin of his wrist and sighed with relief as the small drops of blood started leaking from the cut. No one would notice anyway. No one ever came down to the basement anymore.