So here I am again. It's like 11 am and I've got the day off, so what the heck. I might even update Before I Self Destruct or add another one shot. I've been promising people that like crazy so sorry for being a jerk. Um, after Christmas I should be updating more, my dad bought me a tablet. I know this because he mailed it to my mom's house and she isn't home today, so obviously I opened it. I didn't realize it was my Christmas stuff because my little sister's was supposed to come first and I was going to wrap her presents.
Chapter 10: Scarred
(Fang POV)
Max is in terrible shape.
After her… episode, she's just been acting strange. It's only been 3 days, and I know, she's most likely embarrassed but it's not like she should be. I've known she has PTSD for a while now, her aunt told me, and I was prepared for something out of the ordinary to occur. I don't know if it made her feel better but I told her she handled watching some woman jumping off a cliff right in front of her better than I would've. She's looked at me with wild eyes and ditched.
And I can't take it all. I don't like not knowing. I don't like being away from her for longer than necessary, and I don't want to leave her alone with her thoughts, because I know for fact that when I'm left to my own devices, things crumble and fade and shit gets really fucked.
So because of this extreme anxiety Max has been causing me, I've downgraded to hanging out with Iggy. The guy is my best friend, so maybe I'm not downgrading, but still. It isn't the same as being with Max and I miss her but I don't know what to do about it. I told him all about her break down, how scared and how terrified she had been. How loud she screamed, and the bloodcurdling, heart shattering way her vocal chords seemed to scratch and hitch.
"Dude, give her some time." Iggy says. He's smoking a cigarette. It's a terrible habit, that we both have, and I've been trying to kick it this whole summer. Unsuccessfully.
"You didn't see her Igs. She was… feral. She took one look at me and she was just scared shitless. I've never seen her like that." I blurt. I know this mask of indifference I've been perfecting is slipping. I know he can see that I'm scared. That I'm going fucking insane. Over a girl. He can't hear my scrambled thoughts and he doesn't know what I do, he doesn't know how worried I am about her. Because if max is cracking, as strong as she is, I know that I don't have a chance at survival.
"She's certifiable." He whispers, and stares up at me. We're in my room, he's parked at my spinning desk chair and I'm on my bed and for about 12.5 seconds there's this thick, unbreakable tension between the two of us. It's filled with this… passion. Like he knows that there's something wrong with me, but he doesn't want to believe it and I know there's something wrong with Max, but can't say it. It's electric and it hurts because he's my best friend. He's supposed to keep the whole Fang thing together.
"What?"
"She's fucking sick man. You can't get involved with her. No matter what the freaking doctors have told you. You're normal. You're still the same Fang."
"What the hell are you talking about? You've met her Iggy, and you know for a fact that she isn't insane."
"Dude…" he trails off. His voice is filled with pity and it's disgusting because I don't need it. She isn't insane, and I know this.
But then again, I am on anti-depressants.
"Get the fuck outta my room man." I say quietly. He nods like he understands, but he doesn't because no one ever will again.
My mother would have. She knew what it was like to be in love. And that's what I was. So head over heels in love with this girl I met a month ago that my feet hurt from being in my mouth all the time. I wish that she was still here. I wish to be able to watch her flip her black hair, or watch her smile at me, or tug at my earrings.
And I hear the door slam downstairs, and Iggy is gone. I feel the force of it vibrate through the house, and I feel it sinking in. I can feel myself shutting down, and I can feel all these built up tears trying to break this dam, but instead I end up drowning with my head above water. I can feel all of it in my lungs and I can feel all of it in my head and I know what I'm about to do is filthy and repulsive, but I can't help myself. Everything around me is shaking now, because my eyes are too watery to focus.
Men don't cry.
Too bad I've never really been worthy of that title.
I sit for a moment. A moment or two. Maybe an hour passes, 60 minutes, or maybe a minute, just 60 seconds. I don't know, and it's all killing me because I can't figure shit out. I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.
So as I stand up, and I hear her screaming, and I hear him laughing, and I feel the walls shaking and I hear Max singing, and I feel her hands on mine, and I watch her bleed, I know there's something wrong with me. I know that I shouldn't even be alive, I don't deserve to be. I know, I know, I know, and I don't want to say it. I don't want to say that Max is insane, I don't want to say that I'm just as bad as him, and I don't want to say that it's my fault that she's gone, even though I know it's all true.
I feel this blade pressed up against my skin, and the cool, deadly calm of it all shocks me into reality as I slice into my skin. I don't register the pain until the first drop of blood hits the ground. It sings this melancholy melody and it's so captivating, I have to do it again. This time deeper and I can feel, I savor, the delicious pinch and savor of metal again skin and blood against tile. It's this dark voice tickling my ears, and in order to silence it, to hear the beautiful music of numbness I slice again. And again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
I could go for hours.
And hours.
Hours on top of hours and hours and hours, if this euphoria continued. Floating in my veins and emptying me of the liquid that is sustaining my life.
I am seeing red, no longer watching her cry. No longer watching the bruises bloom like forget-me-nots on her face but the guilt still burns like my skin and I can't get rid of it. I can't do anything.
I sink to the floor. Blade still in my hand, blood still dripping, and close my eyes. I lock the door subconsciously and dream about nothing but nothing.
I think I wake up hours later. The blood had clot a little, and dried on my arm looking sickly and sweet and I want to tear into it again because as soon as I regain consciousness, I think again. I pour alcohol over the wound, grit my teeth against the searing burn, add some Neosporin. I laugh a little, don't add a bandage, and dig through the cabinets for my pills. I haven't been taking them, telling myself I don't need them, but when you wake up in a small pool of your own blood it's hard to deny that there's something wrong.
The pills slide easily down my throat, and I wish it made me sick to swallow them. I feel like a sellout, like a coward and I wish I felt and while taking them, but they actually did help. They make me drowsy so cleaning the blood is a ridiculously sluggish process, but I get it done and meander my way back into my bedroom without passing out before I get to the bed.
I wake up again, and my phone is ringing and I don't want to answer, but it says Max, so, of course, my hand automatically shoots out towards it through my haze.
"Hello?" I croak into the receiver.
"I'm sorry, w-were you asleep?" she says, and her voice shakes likes something I've never heard.
"Uh yeah, but it's fine. What's up?" There's a pause.
"C-can I come over?" she whispers.
"You don't even have to ask Max. I'll unlock the door, yeah?" I'm trying to be soothing, strong or gentle or something, but I don't think it's working. I imagine I can see her nodding her head, because I think I know her so well.
"Yeah. Thanks." The line dies.
So I scramble through the room, looking for a long sleeved shirt or a hoodie or something and before I can slip the shirt over my wife beater, I hear her barge up the stairs. I am ridiculously scared, really I am, and I try to get back to myself before-
"Hi." Her voice is quiet and shy.
"Hey." She doesn't do quiet and shy and I begin to worry. She looks so cold and defenseless, even though she's wearing cut offs and a tank top.
"I'm sorry." She fidgets with the sleeveless jacket she's wearing. It's Iggy's, I remember it being left in her bedroom, and she wears it better than any other girl ever possibly could. My arm throbs as I stare at her and I realize just how many times I carved into my arms.
"You've got nothing to be sorry for. Wanna get some food?" I ask, grabbing my phone and keys instantly, she still looks hesitant to say anything.
"Nick… I don't know-,"
"I insist." I insist and grab her arm before pulling her away. She smiles tentatively as I lead her to the Mustang. Her hand is warm.
Her hair is cascading down her back in a heap and the thin headband she's wearing has let a few wisps escape and she looks amazing in this sunlight staring up me like she can see through every marred piece of my skin and for a second, I forget that I'm doped up on medication.
Don't forget to review you guys!
