Delicate Pulse | Violentine

Questions

I had a dream about Violet barricading herself in the closet. At the time I thought it was strange yet kind of funny.

Nothing could have prepared me for the reason why.

It's been an hour since finding her, an hour since I pulled her out of there. I haven't left her side. After crying into me, she collapsed on her bed and hauled her knees to her chest. I've been sitting beside her, passing her tissues occasionally and rubbing circles on her back while she continues to weep. I didn't know what else to do.

We were close, our shoulders were merely brushing against each other. Existing next to her like this probably would've made my stomach flutter but right now all I could feel was her pain. Seeing her like this made my eyes sting and well up.

She blows her nose for the hundredth time then she takes a long shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising?" I ask softly.

She sniffs. "For being such a fucking mess...and for what she did to you."

My heart plummets and my lungs fill with nerves. She found out.

"God, Clem, if I had known I-"

Her voice trails off. I wait patiently for her to go on but she never does. She picks at her nails and bites her lip.

I think she wants me to say something. I want to say something. It just feels weird now, surreal even because I'm so used to not talking about it. It's strange to think there's no reason to hide anymore.

"I wanted to tell you," I admit. There were close calls, many times when I wanted to break but I couldn't. Not just because I was scared of what would happen to me but I was scared of breaking Violet's heart. I did not have the spirit to tell her. I still find myself lacking the courage to speak of it at all. "I should have told you. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising?"

I only realise she's mocking me when she starts chuckling to herself. Her foot nudges my leg and her bloodshot eyes twinkle up at me, a luscious olive hue. Obviously, she was a mess, her face was very blotchy with dry tears and flushed cheeks. However, there was something ethereal about it like I wasn't looking at a person, it was like I was admiring a painting in an abundant museum. An art piece cleverly assembled and well-loved by the artist.

She sighs, the gust of her breath sending us back to our cramped dorm room. "Is this how we work? We angst out, rage out, regret all of it then make up?"

I shake my head as a tiny smirk pulls at my lips. "We are literally so stupid."

"Yeah, we sure are," she snorts. She glows for a brief second but then frowns again. "Fuck, the group," she cringes, holding her head.

My lashes bat with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"It's going to be so fucking awkward for everyone."

I figure she's talking about Louis and the rest. The thought hadn't crossed my mind at all. "It won't be like that forever," I point out. "Plus, doesn't Minerva have other friends?"

Violet quinces like someone just poked her with a needle. "I don't want to just kick her out," she mumbles. "It's not like it's my group anyways. Those are her friends too."

I can picture what she's saying, the idea of exiling a soul. In my stance, I wanted to do much more than that. I wanted to slam Minerva between a car door.

I yearned to speak how I truly felt, to tell Violet to give no shits about Minerva. The temptation was insufferable but I couldn't. What kind of friend would that make me?