the fabric of your flesh
He'll never be the good guy. / Or, Toby really screws up this time.
By: Lindsey
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars.
a/n: Sorry for the immense amount of run on sentences, over-use of italics, and Toby being really out of character. He's not really mentally stable at the moment though.
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He joins the -A team to protect her.
He thought that he could convince Mona to lay off, to not do anything that would really hurt Spencer and the other girls. He never meant to make things worse.
He especially never meant to kill anybody.
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He doesn't really remember a lot from that night.
He remembers Mona going over the plan with him. "Don't worry. I'm the one doing all the action. All you have to do is keep watch in the bushes. Take this gun, but don't use it unless you absolutely have to."
He doesn't remember checking to see if the safety was on or not.
He remembers something going wrong, very wrong, and he remembers hearing screaming and yelling and crying and "Toby no!" and a loud bang. Then came the sirens, and the EMT workers placing a girl on a gurney.
He remembers the blood, so much blood too much blood oh god she's gonna-
He remembers hearing a long, drawn out beeeeeep.
He remembers running faster than ever before, tears making unfamiliar tracks down his face, guilt making its way into his soul. (It shouldn't be though, he's not the bad guy, he was trying to help)
Now that he thinks about it, he remembers a lot more about that night than he thought.
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He doesn't know where he's going, he just knows he has to get out.
He buys about twenty tickets (or maybe fifty or a hundred or a thousand, he can't keep track anymore), boards trains, planes, boats, taxis, you name it.
He's determined to do whatever he can, to go wherever he needs. He just has to forget.
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Nights are the most painful.
For the most part, he lies in his too-big bed staring at the brown stains on the ceiling of whatever shitty hotel he's staying in for that evening. He likes it in the city, because its never quiet. He still can't handle silence yet, because silence leads to thinking, and thinking leads to her. So, instead he listens to cars honking, music playing, and sometimes a young couple down the hall screaming at each other.
Occasionally, sleep hits him, though it's not peaceful in the slightest. He tosses and turns for hours on end, his dreams (nightmares) filled with the sound of screams and sirens and a skinny brunette girl with caramel brown eyes calling his name.
He wakes up, panting and covered in sweat, and her name tumbles out of his mouth before he can even think to stop it.
"Spencer."
It rolls off his tongue easily, sounding like a song. SpencerSpencerSpencer. The name itself isn't anything special. Only seven letters, two syllables, and yet it still manages to turn his eyes glossy and make his heart thump wildly when he hears it. Like a melancholic song of some sort, a dark depressing melody composed of pianos and violins.
He remembers when the name used to bring joy to his ears, not misery.
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Alcohol becomes one of his best friends.
Beer, whiskey, vodka, whatever he can get his hands on. The pungent liquid slides down his throat, all the way to his stomach. He likes the way it burns the inside of his mouth. Physical pain takes away the emotional kind, helps him forget.
Drugs make their way into his life, too.
He goes to a lot of parties, hoping someone will be there passing around the bag of white powder. He's almost gotten it down to a science, knowing exactly how much will get him high, and how much will get him put in a hospital.
He's never worried about the police, and it doesn't matter if he gets caught anyway. He's always gone by the next morning.
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He never really does get over her.
He doesn't know if its because he loved her, or because it was his fault that she's gone. (But it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't.)
He fucks girls, drinks booze, smokes pot, but none of it changes the fact that he has a newspaper clipping with a picture of her face in his wallet.
He eventually meets a girl that sticks out to him. She tells him people call her Scarlet, (How fitting. It matches her lipstick) and she seems to be going through something similar to his situation. Always running away from things she can't handle.
He doesn't love her, doesn't even come close. She's just someone he keeps around for company, so he doesn't feel so lonely all the time. You could say he was using her, but he knows she's doing the same for him.
One night, they stand on the balcony of her apartment and light a cigarette. They each take a drag, then drop it onto a pile of old (memories) newspaper clippings and pictures. It gives him closure.
He'll never be happy again, but he thinks this is close enough.
One things for sure though: He'll never try to be the good guy again. He's always kind of been the scary one, and eventually that becomes good enough for him.
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end
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a/n: Wow that really sucked, I'm sorry. It probably doesn't make a lot of sense at some points because its so fragmented and Toby's so messed up and out of character. I just really wanted to get it out there, so.. Yeah.
Anyways, reviews make my day, so if you read this, please take the time to leave some constructive criticism regardless if you liked it or not.