Fan Fiction ❯ Almost, This ❯ One ( One-Shot )

Almost, This

"So it all comes down to this," his voice whispered across the abysmal room to my ear.

I looked up at him, frightened, yet not.

"I've nothing left to do," he continued, looking into his palms for an answer, any answer, that would quiet the ache that had so recently consumed him. He looked up at me as beseechingly as he had looked at his palms. "This is what I must do." It sounded more like a question than a statement. "This…" he trailed off, unable to finish. His blue eyes were clear; the usual drug-induced cloud was gone.

His weeks of isolation did not rest well upon him. Dark splotches hung under his eyes. His blonde hair was stringy, greasy. And his once golden tan had faded to a dusky color. He looked so thin, his skin almost transparent; I felt as if he would be blown away by a particularly strong gust blown in from the open window. I got up and closed it.

His eyes followed me. "I can't do this anymore," he said, almost apologetically. I nodded, understanding him completely. "This…this…" he continued, searching for a word. "It's too much, don't you understand? Too much for me." He shook his head as he spoke, greasy strands of hair twirling about his downcast face; almost pretty.

I suddenly wished he would wait a while longer. He hadn't been that bad of company, really. I would almost call him a friend; he would surely call me one. Then again, he would also refer to his drugs as friends, but he used me like one anyway.

"You could do it," he was looking at me again, pleading with his sad eyes. So sad. "You could stand this thing. Not me, not me." He hugged himself, rocking back and forth in the tattered armchair. "It's too much for me."

In his suicidal state he was becoming redundant; and I was restless. I wasn't quite sure what I wanted. For him to die; to kill himself? Was that what I wanted? I looked down at his pale face, into his dark-rimmed eyes of blue. Maybe.

He stood up, then sat back down; unsure of what to do next. "I wouldn't leave you," he told me, quite serious. "But it's too much. I don't want it anymore. I would stay if it wasn't so hard." I nodded; I believed him.

He stood up again and walked to the downstairs bathroom. I followed him and stood in the doorway, a mute sentinel, and watched as he sought out his end. With the razor in hand, he turned to leave but I blocked the way. We stood, looking into each other's eyes for just a moment. For just a moment I wanted so badly to save him. To knock the razor from his hand and envelop him in comforting words and hope. But the moment passed and I moved out of the way. Hope died in his eyes; I watched as it slid from those glorious blue orbs and become replaced by a nothingness so profound, so haunting, I almost wanted to be swallowed by it. Like him, I was haunted by my own soulless wraiths, and wanted escape from them. But unlike him, I sought escape not by destroying myself, but others.

He returned to the chair.

He held the razor in his right hand. So full of promise, it glinted in the dull light of the room. I was forced to wait again. Wait and watch as he fought with himself, with his internal monster; the disease that consumed him was of his own design, and only he had the power to cure it.

He lifted the razor and let it rest against the ash-tinted skin of his left wrist. He looked up at me again. "There's a notebook in my dresser. My poems. I…want you to have it," he said so quietly that I had to strain to hear the last part. I nodded; it was nice of him to leave me something.

Then, he sliced into his delicate flesh; no hesitation, no second thoughts. Crimson flooded to the surface; spurting out, leaving everything it touched discolored. My breath caught in my throat; it was almost erotic.

He didn't cry out, merely gazed down as his life flowed out of him. He switched the razor into his left hand. But he couldn't get a good grip on it. The first cut had been deep, slicing tendons as well as his thread of life. He looked up at me imploringly. I took the razor from him and he offered me his right wrist; blood offering to a god.

The razor bit into his skin; cutting flesh as easily as if it were silk. He locked eyes with me again; he was smiling. "You're always helping me," he said. I wasn't helping him. He laughed bitterly. "It seems that even in killing myself I am a failure. I had to have your help to do it." His beautiful face was contorted by self-loathing; this was not how I wanted to remember him.

I grabbed his face in my hands, having dropped the razor, and tilted his lips up to mine, savoring him one last time. I kissed him even after he stopped responding.

When at last I pulled away I saw his eyes were closed; I'd look into those beautiful blue orbs no longer. But his lips were curved upward in a slight smile. They were parted slightly, and if not for the blood staining his lap and the bottom of his shirt, he could be mistaken for asleep.

I felt an almost childlike excitement to see my present. I took the stairs two at a time and almost fell in my rush to get to our upstairs bedroom.

I found his notebook in his dresser; just like he had said.

I opened the notebook to the book-marked page. The white was filled with his black scribbling. I read his poem:

Within tapestries of light,

silhouettes, and shadows,

the rain speaks to me

of Technicolor dreams.

Of copper-red tears,

tasting of night and

the bitter metal of fear.

Forests of razor blades.

Swaying,

swaying, in the wind.

And the soulless voice

quivers, dances, and lifts,

rising above and beyond;

dancing across the contours

of my mind.

It was how he described his hurt, his ache, to me. And it never really made much sense, and still didn't. Until I scanned the very top of the page and found the title of the poem.

I dropped the notebook.

I stopped breathing.

I ran.

I ran and ran. Jogging down the stairs until I was with him again. He was still dead. No! I wanted to take it all back; to stop him. To have him alive again. To tell him I was sorry.

I stumbled over to him, crumpling into a pile at his feet. Blood made the floor slick.

I took his hands into mine; kissing his torn, ripped, shattered wrists, as if it would heal the wounds and send life back into him.

He didn't stir; he didn't wake. His eyes remained closed but his skin remained warm.

Never had I felt such pain. It rolled through me; just as effective as any drug. It tore at my insides as roughly as I had torn at his mind and as merciless as I has been as I drug the sharpened metal through his flesh.

I picked him up into my arms, carrying him upstairs into our room. I laid him gently on the bed; smoothing back his disheveled hair. He had been so beautiful; but I had driven him to the point where his wrists shed tears of blood.

I crawled into the bed with him; holding his still warm body against me and wishing he could be alive to hold me back. I cried onto his cotton shirt; onto his dead shoulder, and wished to join him soon.

The title of his poem had been my name; I was the demons inside him.