TITLE: LIVE
RATING: M
WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDAL THEMES
AN: I haven't had a chance to proof read the story, I just wanted to get it posted. This is quite morbid, based on some traumatic events that happened, the message directly below is the Facebook Status I uploaded last night. One of my closest friends attempted to kill themselves. Fortunately (well not fortunately) they sent us a 'thanks for being my friend text' and I got a funny feeling, and got my mum to drive me over. Luckily me and another friend managed to stop them and I have since confiscated three bags worth of stuff that could be deemed as a weapon.
"To the person this is dedicated to- you know who you are:
There are over 7 billion people in the world. of that there is a small percentage of people who love you. But that doesn't matter, what matters is that they LOVE you and they would do anything for you. Tonight has proven that, and no matter what, we wont let you fall, because we will always be there to help you up, no matter what others say about you, no matter where you are, or where I am, time - day or night I am here - scratch that- we are all here for you ok? we will always have time to listen, to comfort and to laugh, even if its about nothing, there will be time. so live for us, live life to the full, theres going to be regrets, hundreds and thousands of them, but the best of us find happiness in misery.
Thanks to everyone who helped tonight - you will know what I mean. So reader - live for us. Please. Don't forget it xxxxxxxx"
IF YOU ARE EFFECTED BY ANYTHING IN THIS STORY THERE ARE CONTACT NUMBERS BELOW FOR HELPLINES
DISCLAIMER: I DONT OWN MERLIN.
(LANCELOT'S POV)
You've been more distant recently. We all assumed it was because of him. The break up had been a harsh one, but not too public. You'd only been going out two months. I thought you'd gotten over him. You'd been happier; I know you'd been happier. But then he decided to go out with your best friend instead. He had invited her to the Valentines Ball, the one that he'd originally persuaded you to go with him for, regardless of the fact you can't dance. Gwaine persuades you to go with him 'as a friend' you love him like a brother, but never as a boyfriend. But you go anyway, thanking your stars that it is an informal dance, stuff the tux, you slip on your favourite pair of black skinny jeans, tug on your black mid calf boots, and slip on your favourite chequered shirt, rolling it at the sleeves and leaving the top few buttons undone, your leather jacket over the top. Gwaine tells you that you look hot, and I give you a smile saying that if I wasn't completely straight and didn't have a girlfriend that I'd take you myself. You give me the first genuine grin for weeks, and we relax, walking into the gym three abreast, Gwaine has his arm wrapped around your shoulders comfortably.
But that's when everything goes wrong. You see them, in the middle of the dance floor, having a steamy game of tonsil tennis. You grab hold of Gwaine's arm with a new resolve and tell him that you want to go clubbing, get absolutely wasted and possibly pull a few. Gwaine gives you a grin, and you stroll out of the hall to one of the many clubs that are around our uni campus. You're not back in classes the next day, and I panic. Gwaine just smiles and tells me that you're a lightweight and have a fantastic hangover. But then I find the next day that you went clubbing that night, and the night after and after that. A pit of horror goes through my body, when I see you on the Friday. There are bags under your eyes, but you give Gwaine a wink and a grin when you slump down between us. Obvious hickeys line your neck, but you ignore me, instead telling Gwaine about this brunet that stayed round last night. At break, you sneak off grounds for a cigarette, you come back half an hour later, stinking of them, but you look more relaxed, happy-ish. You invite Gwaine to come out clubbing later, and he agrees with an easy smile. This happens a lot more as the nights go on, hardly ever coming to your lectures, you're smoking at every opportunity now, and you've lost weight, your clothes that used to hug your frame, hang off it. You're paler and the bags under your eyes are dark and purple. You also seem to be favouring long sleeved t-shirts more.
I don't think anything of it yet, thinking you were still getting over Arthur. That was until I get an urgent call off Gwaine, who says that you sent him a text – "I just wanted to say, even though I've been a horrid friend, I really appreciated that you were there for me. Thanks. Goodbye" Gwaine is hysterical over the phone and tells me to meet him at your flat. I get there in minutes, running across the city as fast as I can. With a nod to Gwaine, I unlock the flat with my spare key, letting ourselves in. "Merlin!" We had called out, Gwaine taking one side of the apartment, me taking the other. I rush to your bedroom, and find you there, slumped against the pillows, I feel myself relax slightly, thinking you're asleep, until I see the glint of bloodied metal. Panic washes over me as run towards your slumped figure. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels is clutched in your right hand, a pen knife lies between your crossed legs, coated in blood. I ignore the tear tracks down your face for now, my attention now on the gaping wounds on your wrists, blood pumping out of them at an alarming rate. "GWAINE" I had yelled loudly, but it sounded far too quiet.
Your breathing seems incredibly slower as I tug off my cardigan and my t-shirt, leaving my long sleeved top underneath as I try to forget my shaking hands, attempting to tie my top and jumper over the wounds. I push as much pressure as I can on both, pretending that it isn't you that this has happened to, begging that it isn't. Gwaine bursts into the room, eyes widening when he takes in the sight. Luckily my instincts had taken over, "Phone an ambulance!" I yell at him and he complies. Talking in monotone, as he gives the response team your address, and explains your condition. They say that they will be here in seven minutes. This is the longest seven minutes of my life, elongated by the weakening of your pulse and the slowing of your breathing. Every time it catches in your throat, I panic, hoping it won't be your last. When the crew finally arrive, they praise me for doing a good job. I don't want praise. I want you to be safe. They keep the pressure on the wounds, and ask if I want to be in the back of the ambulance. I agree immediately, telling Gwaine to follow in his car.
The sterile smell itches at my nose, but I don't pay much attention, just praying that you will live. You make it to the hospital, and they rush you straight into theatre, a kind nurse wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, shoving an overly sweet cup of tea into my hands and showing me the relative's waiting room. I fill out all the forms necessary, wincing at the blood on my hands, but I can't bring myself to wash them, instead, I alternate from sitting completely still with my hands pulling at my hair, to pacing backwards and forwards with worry. Gwaine shows up an hour later, telling me that they cleaned your flat. I pull him into a hug, and we support each other worriedly. Forty-Five minutes after Gwaine arrives, Arthur does with Gwen. He is pale and shaking so much that Gwen had to be the one that drove them here. Arthur keeps whispering to himself that it's his fault, he paces the length of the room so many times, and I lose count after the first hundred. Eventually, two and a half hours later, a doctor comes into the waiting room. He asks for me since I am your emergency contact, and I tell him to say what he has to all of us.
We all love you to bits Merlin. He nods gruffly, before telling us that you'd died twice on the table, they had to pump your stomach of the alcohol, and that they would give you at least six pints of blood to make up for the amount that you had lost. He told us that you were very weak and that we should prepare for the worst. I just ask if we could see you. He tells us that only two should go. I automatically go; Arthur follows after me as we make our way to intensive care. I gape at all the machines you are hooked up to. The amount of pipes and monitors are shocking. Your wrists are heavily bandaged, and you look so small lying on the bed. A few tears make their way down my face, as I walk over to you, taking one of your hands gently in mine, Arthur doing the same on the other side. We both murmur things to you. Complete and utter nonsense, but most of all we ask you why. Why you felt you couldn't come and talk to us about anything. We both kiss your forehead when we are told the five minutes are up, giving a smile to the doctor who let us have fifteen instead.
I stay in the waiting room over night, changing into some hospital scrubs, and cleaning off all the blood I can in the staff toilets. I panic when your surgeon comes in the next morning. He has a sad smile on his face. I hug him with relief when he tells me that you are still alive. I have too much elation to be embarrassed. He tells me that there will be a long road ahead.
I nod in agreement, but I don't care.
What matters is that we've still got you, and that you're going to live.
AN: Hope you enjoyed? (ok not the right word) I may do a follow up chapter depending on response etc.
*Update - Thank you mersan123, is this any better? :)
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