twenty: the truth untold

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When the first drops of rain start trickling over his curtain-covered windows, Gregory reaches for the box-cutter again

Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.

When the first drops of rain start trickling over his curtain-covered windows, Gregory reaches for the box-cutter again.

"You need help."

Gregory keels over, one hand gripping the shattered heart in his chest, the other closing around the uncovered blade. He feels the barely-closed cut on his palm split again, blood staining the box-cutter scarlet.

"You need help."

Jeong-Soon's words ring in his head, over and over again, an untarnished symphony straight from tear-stained rose lips. Lips Gregory had kissed, once, twice, a million times, lips he'd kiss for the rest of eternity if he hadn't fucked it all up, if he hadn't been so fucking stupid---

"You need help."

"I don't!" Gregory screams, and no one hears him. No one except the butterflies, mere ghosts of the former flight-blessed lovers they had once been as they flutter around him in sad, dusty clumps, their wings ripped to shreds.

"I don't..." A sob escapes his throat, joining the unwanted familiarity of the tears trickling down his cheeks. "...need help. I don't. I don't. I don't." He doesn't know who he's trying to convince anymore---the shadow of whatever Jeong-Soon's left behind, the demons in his own head, himself. Himself and the fucked up brain floating around in his skull.

Fuck. Who am I kidding? Gregory attempts to drag his agony-wrecked body off the ground, the normally soothing pitter-patter of the rain on his window rattling in his head like a pinball in an arcade. His hand's still wrapped around the box-cutter, still leaking bright crimson over its tempting silver blade.

His palm's gone numb. He's pretty sure he's sliced into something important.

Gregory gives up, flopping back down on the ground as pain rolls up his spine. He watches his own blood spill around him like red wine, sees Jeong-Soon's terrified face in every glassy, vermillion facet. "I didn't mean it," he whispers. "I wouldn't have hurt you. I didn't want to hurt you." The box-cutter finally slips from his grasp, sprinkling crimson over the wood-panelled floor. He shuts his eyes, if only to block out the visage of Jeong-Soon's horrified eyes and open mouth, marked fear in his chestnut gaze. "I would have hurt anyone and everyone. But not you."

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