Jokers

52

TW: A BIT SUICIDAL. 

Aria Pov:

Things always had a way of showing up unexpectedly. 

Even though I'd suspected it all along, it hurt. 

It hurt so fucking much. Like my heart had been ripped out and stomped all over. Fuck it hurt more then the scars that I carried on my back. 

That pain I had felt before was nothing compared to the pain I was feeling in my chest. 

The pain I had endured before was ok, because I had deserved it. It was my fault that Oliver and Father had died. It was my fault so it was my pain to endure. 

Yet. Oliver hadn't died. 

He'd survived. He didn't have to live like I did. 

From the looks of it he had a wonderful life. 

All without me. 

I had always wondered if everything would have been different if I had decided to runaway. Just like he told me to. 

Then I remember that I was dumb. I was scared. I was a child. Just a child. 

The world was cruel. Everyone knew that. 

What they didn't realise was just how cruel it was. When the world saw an abandoned helpless child, it didn't help. It poked and prodded until finally the child broke down and there was nothing left, but an empty shell. 

I was nothing more then that after all. 

An empty shell of a human that had nothing more then to wait for death. 

The worse thing is that I know that I shouldn't be complaining like this. 

I'm not even related to my so called family. I don't have one. When I was 4 years old I was sold by my mother to Einfield who perhaps decided to take me in out of pity. 

Pity or not, I was grateful. 

I couldn't remember much of my mother but the little bits that I did weren't happy memories at all. 

A slap here and there. A scowl. dark rooms, and fear. 

It was only till I was perhaps 15 I realised that she was a prostitute. Meaning my father could have been anyone. 

It didn't bother me though. I didn't need them. They didn't need me. 

Jayson Einfield was one of the kindest people i'd ever met in my life. He treated me like a daughter. Loved me like one and though he was cold to others he never raised his voice, never got angry at me. 

He was the one who taught me how to use guns in the first place. He found out that I seemed to have a skill in that area when I picked one up out of curiosity and aimed it at a glass to which I obviously missed but it grazed the glass. 

He was surprised and so was I. 

That was the day he decided to teach me, I was around 10 years old. 1 year before his death. 

I shook my head. Feebly trying to shake the memories that i just wanted to wrap myself so so warmly inside. 

I refuse to let this thing break me, after everything that I've faced I refuse to let this be the thing to tear me down. 

"Be brave."

Yet, the betrayal of it all was harder to fight. I stabbed me continuously. It would leave a deep wound and I knew that, there would be no healing. No help. It would continue bleeding forever. 

I let out a strangled breath and leant my head against my door. 

"Be brave." 

Every time I wanted to give up I would hear his voice, telling me to be brave. Well damn you father but that isn't the easiest right now. 

I had no more tears left to cry. So I sat there. Alone. It was weird how my life seemed to work in this circle. It would always clock back to me sitting and pathetically crying my eyes out in a corner, and every time i'd make the same damn promise that would I couldn't stay true too. 

"I'll become stronger. I promise." 

A sound of something breaking  outside of my door snapped me out of my thoughts. I scrunched my eyebrows in concern, also in a little bit of fury. 

I mean come on, here I am having my time at being depressed and there's someone being extremely rude and breaking things. 

RIGHT OUTSIDE OF MY DOOR. 

I CAN'T EVEN CRY IN PEACE. FUCK MY LIFE MAN. 

I furiously pulled open my door but just as I was about to step out and start yelling the abuse that i wanted to, I caught sight of a mangled painting at my door. Its frame was absolutely demolished, Fucking hell. 

I cautiously peered out of my door frame to see Leo climbing through the window at the end of the hallway. 

Well there's the perpetrator of the painting. 

His back was facing me as he climbed through, his raven hair was little messy, and fucking hell, was that blood? dripping from his hands? I looked down at the hallway carpet and the beige carpets had patches of crimson, dark blood on them. 

There was no way that his hands could be bleeding so much just from breaking the painting. No way. 

I watched as he jumped out of the window, I knew exactly where he was going. The balcony. The place where he had his guitar. 

In that moment I made the dumbest decision that I could have ever made. 

I decided to followed him. 

I quickly dipped into my room and ran to my bathroom, pulling open all of my cabinets. Where the hell is the medical kit? Chase must have-

I felt a stab at his name. 

I swallowed. Nope. We weren't going there. Not now, and certainly never in the future, this was one of those things I was going to bury. 

After a good 2 minuets of intense searching I found it. 

Well time to see what was wrong with the tyrant I guess. 

...

I'M OPEN TO ALL CRITISISM SO PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT I COULD CHANGE I'D BE MORE THEN GRATEFUL.