the blood in our future

Bright Enough

A/N: Sorry for the wait everyone I was sick and trust me what I wrote with fever was unintelligible 

Also, some TWs just in case (SKIP THIS if you want to go in blind):

- spiralling thoughts

- depressive thoughts

- overall depressive mood

- grief

- suicidal ideation

- gore and violence come back!!

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As so often, Anthony Lockwood was not sleeping.

He didn't think he ever would again.

All he did was sit on the floor of the library. Stare up at the ceiling.

The curtains were drawn. The green light still found its way in anyway.

All he did was see her.

Every moment they'd spent together. Every grin she'd allowed him to have. Every restless night, every early morning.

She carried so much light with her, wherever she went. He'd never told her.

In his unruly mind (a mind that had taken after her), it sometimes slipped from him.

He turned his head, halfway convinced it was still yesterday night. Convinced she'd be there, next to him, close to him. Smiling up at him. Telling him that she had no intention of leaving. That she would stay. That she wanted this.

He'd been so full of hope, then. He hadn't known it: That she'd been dying, that everything had been too late already, that he would fail her, again, when she needed him most.

No, back then, he'd thought that this could be the start. The start of everything. That, maybe, if he only gave it his best, he'd get to spend his life with her.

He turned his head. She wasn't there, of course. He looked back up to the ceiling.

He wanted to go back a day. Tell Lucy not to put her trust in him. Tell her to slap him when he went to kiss her, to storm off and leave him in the dark. Make her see him for what he really was: Someone who only ever damaged. Someone who left a trail of death bright enough to see.

Lockwood's vision went blurry as the tears came.

She never should have saved him, down in that cellar. She'd be alive if she hadn't. She'd be okay. Grinning right now, probably.

She never should have fallen in love with him. He never should have wanted her to. Because even though he knew that she'd drowned — it was trusting him that had killed her, hadn't it?

She'd died because of him.

If he'd kept her at arm's length, if he'd swallowed his feelings and been a proper boss to her, if he'd never let her so close, if he'd stopped being a jealous dick long enough to see through Colby, if he'd died a little quicker in the mill—

The ghost lamp outside went out. Left him alone with those sobs he couldn't hold back.

If he'd never broken up with her, never left the house, if he'd put more thought into what she'd told him of her dreams, if he'd been there when Mary had called—

It was his fault.

Her death was his fault.

She'd called for him. Despite everything between them, despite everything he'd done to her, she'd asked for his help. And he hadn't been there.