Grayson Smith Alternate Ending

In The Stars

Song for this alternate ending: This Love by Taylor Swift 

His white shirt was slowly streaking red, petals of it blooming at his abdomen. A weak cry fell from out of my lips, burning the back of my throat and slicing through the agony beating through my heart. Still, his hands feathered lightly over my shoulders, his dilated eyes roaming over my throat, over every crevice of my body that was screaming to sit up and hold him.

"Libs," he murmured, placing his hands behind my back, attempting to pull me towards him. I think he was in shock. "We need to get you to a hospital."

In this very moment, I didn't care that my parted lips were gathering rain or that I may have been bleeding to death- I knew he was clenching his jaw because he was in grave pain and wouldn't speak on it. I knew that he would die, allow his vital organs to deprive themselves of oxygen all if it meant that I was safe. 

"I'm-" It hurt to speak, my own tongue shunning me in a moment I needed to be a saint. "I'm okay. Flesh wound." 

"Don't joke with me right now," he replied in desperation, his fingers dancing over the cut in an area I couldn't afford any injury. It stung, I wanted to flinch back, to refuse his aid but if he had taught me anything, it was that I could trust him. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, apologizing for the pain as if he played any role in it. He leans down so his face is directly above my own, I'm not quite sure why until I swallow and it isn't salty from the rain. 

I can hear it fall next to me in quick, earnest lashings. "Please," I plead with him, "you're hurt." Leave me here to go get help, I wanted to say. The stain was worsening on his shirt, to the point it was falling on my dress, making a sickening puddle that only told of how badly he got the brunt of the knife. 

He's too fixated on putting pressure on my throat, and I'm sure counting the pulse of my heartrate to notice that I lift up his shirt, to get a glimpse of the horror awaiting me. A large gash is spilled across his right ribcage, I almost scream. 

"Flesh wound," he counters, holding me down by one hand on my shoulder as I attempt to stand. Adrenaline wants to course through any sense of rational and call for help, I would do it. I'd run for help, call down any passing person even if I died doing it. All if it meant he was safe. "Don't move, please, you'll-"

He can't finish what he needs to say, you'll bleed out, is what he says without vocalizing it. His cracked voice did it for him. For some, unnatural, reason, I'm not scared. He's terrified. The roles have reversed and I hate that I have no power to help him as he has for me, without much incentive needed.

"I love you," I tell him, in case I never get the chance to again.

I wait for him to say it back, as he always does without fail. 

He never does.

His frantic eyes zone in on mine, "Don't hit me with this shit, Lib. Tell me again in the morning and I'll be here to say it back, okay? Just- Jesus Christ, where the fuck is Blake?"

I attempt to stand once more but his weight defeats me, my head hurts, I feel each blink as though they were weighted. Swallowing is a task that feels too hefty in this very moment. I can do nothing but sit, slack, and stare as his urgency to look back and shout out for help proves futile. 

We're all alone. 

He kisses my cheekbone, his lips freezing cold and I want to keep him here forever. "He'll be here any minute Libs, just you wait," he says this and I know he is reassuring himself more than anything else. His voice is shaky, he doesn't sound like himself at all and I want to cry. 

How long have we been here? Seconds, Minutes, Hours? I didn't know. I knew that I could no longer feel the tips of my fingers and a pang was worsening at the back of my head, my throat an acid rain of torture. Too long, we were here too long.