Summary: Sam wonders for a second if she's holding the same person she held two nights ago.
Genres: Angst, hurt/comfort, romance, bipolar!Cat.
Type: Oneshot, second person narrative, non-linear.
Warning: References to mental illness and self-harm. Death and loss.
Author's Note: (Three oneshots in the past twenty four hours?! What am I - jobless?) Good morbid morning to you, too. I think this oneshot best explains the reason I haven't been too active a Puckentier. Also serves as an apologetic peace offering for that, I guess. I won't elaborate, but I don't think I have to.
. . .
You wake up in the middle of the night and you hear her sniffing. Soft at first, and then you hear sobbing.
She's facing away from you so you can't see her face, but the mere image of her tear-stricken face suffocates you.
She doesn't know you're awake. She doesn't know you know.
But you want her to, because you promised her you'd be there.
You put your hand on her shoulder and she doesn't move. The sobbing pauses for a moment, you hear her take deep breaths, and then you feel something inside her let go and suddenly she's sobbing louder than before and her shoulders quake uncontrollably under your touch.
And it hurts you before it scares you.
And you wish you understand.
But you don't.
...
You come home one night and you don't know what to expect.
You don't know if you should shield yourself or embrace her.
You take a deep breath and you open the door, and you see her lying in your bed and you smile because she's not sobbing.
She hears you walking in the room and her eyes blink open, and for one embarrassing moment, your heart stops.
Come here, stupid.
You sigh, and you smile, and you hop onto the bed and you put your arm around her and you listen to how her day went even though you're exhausted from work because you know nights like this are rare.
...
You are both twenty four when you find out.
You go home with a bunch of pills and you hold her hand and you tell her it's okay. And she starts to cry right there in the back of the cab, the first of many breakdowns.
You are both twenty four when you realize that the revelation explains a lot of things in the past.
The next morning she asks you why you're still here.
It's going to be difficult.
You nod because you know. You don't understand, yes, but you know.
You don't have to stay.
But you want to, not because you think she needs you, but because you need her.
...
The first time she hits you it takes you so much by surprise you wonder for a second if you're holding the same person you held two nights ago.
She claws at you, screams obscenities and wails and sobs, but you don't let go because you know it's better for her to take it out on you than on her sweet self.
Later that night when the pills are down and the moon is up and her eyes are lazy and hazy and her smile looks sickly instead of sweet, she traces the scars she gave you and you let her.
I have them too.
She pulls the hem of her night gown up and you see the things she does to herself whenever she's alone and you're not looking.
She puts your hand over them and you feel them, cool under your skin, rough and soft. Red like her hair.
And for the first time in a long time, you're the one crying in bed in the middle of the night because you don't know if you can do this anymore, and she pulls you closer and holds you and doesn't cry because she doesn't know what you're thinking.
...
At her funeral, you feel like you don't deserve to be up there on the ground while she's so deep down under.
Her voice rings in your head.
I love you.
And you cry because you don't remember the last time she said that.
You want to be down there with her. Maybe then you'll understand.
At home you try to think of the times you could have left but didn't, and it hurts you because you don't know if your presence made much of a difference.
And you will never know.
And you cry and cry and cry, and you think you start to understand a little. Like how hard it is to control yourself from crying when everything feels so pointless to you.
And you realize that she never had control.
...
Do you still love me?
Even more today than yesterday, you whisper.
Even when I'm such a mess?
I love mess. My whole life depends on it.
You don't have to stay, you know?
You shake your head and you kiss her. You kiss her and kiss her and kiss her until you've gotten every inch of her body.
And you wish to god that was enough of an answer because you don't know if you can give the same answer the next time she says that.