A/N:ok. my brain came up with this while i was
sleeping. lol. yeah.
its pg 13 because of the morbidness. i like it muchly. i didnt want it
capitalized. sooo. to the story!
the summmary is from a tori song.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: B/C/M
Summary: well happy birthday, your blood's on my hands.
placid glass
she watches herself in the placid glass across the hall. deep breathes will get
her through this. maybe not, but it's always nice to pretend. her long, brown
hair falls gently over her shoulder. she is strong, strong enough that the
heated cool of the wind will get her through.
his eyes are dark and clouded. he is confused and upset. in his hands he holds
the power of life and of death. in his hands he holds a knife. he loved her and
him really, truly; madly, deeply. his voice is ragged as the cold cooling storm
hits his body. "please." he pleaded really, he pleaded because he didn't want
to do this. "please, mandy."
"brian."
"mandy, mandy, mandy." and he cries his hardest, and wretched tears and broken
sobs wrack his delicate body. "mandy, please."
pleases are empty and pleasing to the ear but not tonight, not from him. she is
strong as glass, the kind which shatters in a fierce wind. she is strong as
that wind. so she grips herself well; and hang on, it will be a hard ride. she
runs her fingers quietly through his hair. she whispers, really whispers, "no."
and she has to walk away, has to, has to because this has been quite enough,
for all of them.
the blood drips to the floor. he isn't going to hurt her, really he isn't. he
doesn't want to hurt anyone, brian only wants to hurt himself. the blood drip
drops to the floor forming a placid pool of reflecting redness. "damn it,
mandy." damn it. he shudders because he can't take the eyes, can't their blank
stare. he screams, "damn you, mandy." and the wind carries it away.
her footsteps follow each other back into the room. "fuck you, brian. fuck you.
i thought you said you'd stop." she snatches the shimmering knife away from him
and throws it to the ground. she never learned how to help him right. she
always made it more worse than more better. she made him bleed more. she
whispers, "thought you said you'd stop." she walks away.
she is strong as the placid storm and more beautiful than life. she will please
please please you until you throw her away. "love you, mandy." he whispers to
her falling shadow.
love you, brian
as she cries to herself.
she doesn't understand, not really. there's pain in beauty.
he emerges from the shadows a barely there soul. he is scarred too, he is
scarred and he knows. he is as strong as you need him to be, as strong as he
pretends. "brian," he whispers. it's dark: the whisper, the wind, this place.
"fuck you, curt."
"brian."
"fuck you." he screams it loudly and it comes as more than a whisper. he cries
and curt can feel it. he walks over to him gently, walks over to him like he's
walking on ice or on broken, sugar glass. brian is broken tonight.
brian's hand is clutching, clutching desperately the knife in his hand. it
pains him dull and throbbing and over and over. the blood drip drops, falls
into a placid lake of red oblivion. his tears slip slide down his cheek into
the bloody lake. the pattern is fascinating and he drags his fingers through
it, creating beauty with his pain. he's always been able to do that and do it
so well.
"shit, brian." curt picks up brian's hand and entwines their fingers. he kisses
the red tipped fingers and pulls brian into his embrace. "shit. damn it,
brian."
"don't." he whimpers. "please. please please. don't, you can't both leave." and
then quietly, softly, gently he whispers, "i'll die."
"jesus, brian. i'm not going to leave." he pulls away and threads his fingers
through his shaggy, blonde hair. he paces back and forth. and what the hell
happened to strength? maybe the lake ate it. maybe the blood is eating it.
brian pulls himself closer to the in. that's all he needs. only himself. so he
pulls to the in, inward. he shudders.
"why?" curt asks him softly.
"can't stop."
"you could."
"i can't."
curt sits down with brian, who is still bleeding, is still transfixed with the
swirling splendor of his dripping blood. he rolls up his sleeve, running his
fingers, ghost like, against his skin. they scar the same, almost.
outside the stars are glowing strongly, beautifuly and longly. outside the wind
blows, defining gently the meaning of life. if you'd only listen a little
harder, maybe you could hear the dreamings of the dark.
brian has dropped the knife, but now he has it again. he holds it with strength
and hatred. "damn you," he whispers to the blade. he scores and plunges and
repeates in perfect time. the blood drip drops against the placid glass, the
mirror in the hall.
"fuck you," he tells his blood. "fuck your twisted beauty."
and he lets it all go, go to the wind.
"promise me something." and now it isn't very clear to whom he's speaking. so
he whispers it to the dark and the blade and blood. maybe he whispers to curt.
curt answers, "what?"
"that you'll come too."
"always."
stains have been cleared and cleaned and erased except for the fact that they
don't disappear. the night. the in. inward. that is the strength.
----