Give me a sign (I want to believe) Reader x Brendon Urie

The Poor Groom's Bride is a Whore (And Other Occurrences)

"Fuck," you mutter, glancing down at the rapidly building red on your skin. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...

Great job, you think to yourself. You cut too deep and now you're probably going to have to go get medical help. And once they find the other scars, they'll stick you into rehab. Great fucking job, (Y/N), just great fucking job.

There's a chance, you know, that maybe, if you're lucky, you can just bind it up and hope you won't lose too much blood and die in your sleep or something, but... you don't know. You don't really want to die. Well, you do, but not bad enough to actually take action.

Or do you?

Like you said before, you don't know. Really, you don't really know anything at the moment. Everything's just sort of fuzzy and spacey and then it's moving very s l o w l y and then it's...

Then it's not moving at all.

When you wake up, it's to the sickening smell of blood in your nostrils and searing agony in your arm. You weakly put your good arm on the tiles and push yourself up, still too dizzy to really process what you're seeing correctly.

You're lying in a puddle of blood, you realize, after a moment.

Your blood.

Normally, this would be the time a normal human being would scramble up and try to clean the blood off them almost frantically, in a Lady Macbeth sort of way, even though they'd (probably) never murdered anyone. But for you... you're really just too tired to mind it right now. Your parents still don't seem to be home and you don't think you've actually been out for more than an hour or two, so, until they get back, you don't really have to do anything. Well, of course you'll have to clean it up eventually, but it'd still be kind of nice to just... lay there for a while.

Is it morbid? Probably.

Do you care? Not really.

So you just sit there, in a pool of your drying blood, for a couple minutes as you try to remember how to do, you know, basic human functions such as breathing and blinking. But eventually, you seem to gain the strength to stand back up, and after that you sort of decide that, if you're standing, you might as well clean the mess up, so you do.

It takes a lot longer than you're used to, and a lot longer than you'd like, but you finally finish it up. The next few minutes are spent just staring at your (still bleeding) arm with disgust; you kinda don't want to treat it, but it could get infected, and, also, something that deep is easily detected when not bandaged, so it'd be best if you did so.

Except...

You examine it with a frown.

Except it might need stitches.

Great. Just fucking great.

You're horrible with a needle and thread and you don't really want to look like some sort of badly stitched piece of leather when you're done, but from the looks of your arm, it's that or the hospital- and that's not really a competition.

So you grab your parent's sewing kit, thread a needle, and get to work.

You probably shouldn't be here.

You're back at the abandoned old studio, this time with your earbuds plugged into your phone and in your ears (because you learned your lesson last time). It's been less than 24 hours since what you've decided to call The Near-Death Experience, so you're still so weak from blood loss that you can barely walk, but you just couldn't stay away.

You probably shouldn't be here. But then, when has that ever stopped you?

So you pick that magic playlist of yours and click shuffle-play, carefully cradling your arm as you do so because although it's not bleeding anymore, it still hurts a fuckton.