RHYS

01.

A/N: Tell me a random confession?

Renee's pronounced Ruh-Nay

Chapter 1 | Scared, lost boy

✦ Renee✦

I was, as always, in a predicament.

I'm not really an indecisive person, but I've been told quite a few times I'm obsessed with being right. So there were many instances where my mind is reeling with thoughts of which decision is right and which is wrong and I'm stuck in a mental quick sand: the more I think, the more I'm sinking to the depth of confusion.

But most times I'm choosing between ice cream flavours and character's names, not between lives.

One of them being mine.

In my head, two sides are arguing and I don't know which one's being rational.

I don't want to die, alright? There's so many places I haven't been, so many things I haven't tried, and to be honest it's pathetic if I die on the first day that I moved in with my parents. I don't want them to regret taking me in...

But I don't want to leave the man soaking my porch maroon to die either.

"It would help if you fuck off the door anytime soon," the guy wheezes, dark hair dampened with sweat. He's clutching his side, white shirt soaked with blood.

I open my mouth to snap back - then my eyes lock with his sea blue eyes glaring a hole through mine. He looks like he's seconds away from slamming me to my door. But there's a pleading look in them, a lost boy bargaining for his life.

Well, except that he's bargaining with threat. There's a good chance my conscience is only trying to find reasons to not let another person die in front of my eyes.

Shut the door, I tell myself. I deserve to be selfish - I'm supposed to. I finally have a chance at being happy after sixteen years of misery, another shot at righting my life that not many get. And this guy at my doorstep looks like a VIP roundtrip ticket to hell.

Sighing, I lower the baseball bat, stepping aside.

He sighs as if he's actually been waiting for my permission - ha, right. I can hold my own in a fight, but his 6 foot lean frame could have crushed me even in his state. Oh, this is a bad idea.

He doesn't hesitate to help himself to the couch with a grunt. "First aid," he growls, squeezing his eyes shut. Opens them back as he hears me not cooperating. "You fucking mute?"

Sue me. I'm just not used to a potential murderer barging into my house in the middle of the night with God knows what happened to him. And he probably deserves it.

I don't say it, of course. I don't have a deathwish.

Strutting to the kitchen, I grab the first aid kit and pause a little bit, hoping that when I come back he's not there.

Nope, still there.

His shirt is unbuckled, revealing toned abs. Blood sliding down his torso, but from where I'm standing I couldn't see where it was pooling from. And I'm very content with that.

I throw the first aid box at the coffee table, having done my part of the unspoken deal. There's no way I'm going to be in a five feet vicinity of this guy. I don't know him but I don't need to, to realize he's nothing but dangerous. The kind of dangerous baseball bats can't keep away.

Hissing, he sits up and discards his shirt. He scrambles in the first aid kit in a rush, grabbing a bottle of alcohol and a bandaid before collapsing back into the couch.

My eyes widen as I register the gory sight of the gash right under his ribcage. Holy hell- he's been stabbed. That's a stab wound. Fuck.

"A bandaid and alcohol is not going to fix a hole in your stomach," I scoff at the absurdity, too shocked to stop myself.

"No fucking shit," he snarls, mustering what could be his last breath to look me down. He opens his mouth but only a groan escapes. "Make good use of yourself and help me, will you?"

It's not a request, much like his previous orders he seems like someone who has never had to ask twice. Asshole. Who's he to order me around, dying and helpless on my couch?

"I'm making perfect use of myself right here," I retort stubbornly.

His head snaps towards me, the murderous scowl on his face replaced by a dumbfounded expression. Then shock seeps from his eyes and instead the furious stare takes hold again.

I stare back, not because I'm fearless but because I'm scared if I even blink he might lunge for my neck or something.

"You-" he moves as if to stand up, but lets out a loud hiss and plops back. He squeezes his eyes shut then grabs the alcohol, steadying himself.

Before emptying the entire bottle on his wound. A blood-curdling scream escapes from his cut, bruised lips as he writhes, chest rising and falling with every breath he's fighting for. "Good lord help me," he whimpers.

"I'm gonna call an ambulance!"

"Don't." Not a request. He's making it too hard to empathize here.

"Then what the fuck do you suggest I do, oh kind sir?" I flail my arms dramatically. "Have a cup of tea and biscuits? You're dying on my couch!"

I brace myself for a glare, but he only looks at me with tired half-lidded eyes. Now I'm starting to worry. "Stitch." He manages to grunt. "Can you stitch?"

"No."

"Perfect,"

"I am not gonna be an accomplice in your suicide mission! Look, man, I'm gonna call up someone who could help your... case. An ambulance, the police. Maybe a therapist. You're gonna tell them we don't know each other, and-"

"Please." His voice cracks, his face- his glossy, too blue eyes too vulnerable. The man threatening and snapping was gone, in his place a scared, lost boy who has seemed to run off the trail of his life. A boy not very different for me, looking for another chance. And whether or not he gets it is in my hands. "Please."

I exhale a short breath and run a hand through my hair.

This is going to be a long night.

wc: 1052