tw: blood, self-harm
The blade didn't hesitate — but you did.
Just for a second.
But you dragged it across your wrist anyway, slowly, deliberately, like you were punishing yourself. Like maybe if it hurt enough, it would drown out the real pain — the one he couldn't see, the one he didn't care about.
The bathroom was sterile. Cold. A cage lined in gold. You stared at the pale tile beneath you, watching the blood pool like a guilty secret.
This wasn't supposed to be your life.
You were good. Or... you used to be. Sweet, soft-spoken. A girl who loved quiet mornings and rainy days. A girl who cried when animals got hurt in movies. A girl who wanted love — not him.
But then he found you.
Joker.
He loved how pure you were. Called you his "little angel in a glass box." And then he cracked it. Broke it. Shoved his bloody fingers in and made a home inside your ribcage.
You tried to leave once. He carved his name into your thigh so you'd remember who you belonged to.
But this time, you weren't trying to leave.
You were trying to end.
The world went slow. Fuzzy. The buzzing in your ears turned to whispers. His voice, maybe. Or your own guilt.
Then—
The door exploded off its hinges.
You didn't need to look up. You knew that snarl, that heavy, erratic breathing.
"Oh, no no no no no, NO!"
His scream was raw. Not from sadness — from fury. His footsteps thundered toward you, then stopped. You felt the silence before he fell to his knees, scooping your limp body into his arms, sticky with blood.
"You stupid, stupid girl," he hissed into your hair, voice shaking with something unhinged. "You wanna leave me? THIS is how you do it?! On the floor? Like some stray dog?!"
Your lips barely moved. "I'm tired..."
"Oh, fuck you," he growled. "Tired of what, huh? The diamonds? The mansions? The pretty little cages I built for you? You ungrateful little thing..."
He slapped you.
Not hard. But hard enough that your head jerked. Hard enough that his eyes widened after, like he didn't even mean to — but he didn't apologize either.
"Look what you made me do," he whispered.
You cried. Silent tears. Not out of fear. But because part of you still loved him. Or maybe just didn't know what life was without him anymore.
"You think you're too good for my world?" he mocked, eyes glowing with venom. "Too soft? Too pure?" He laughed — dry, manic. "You are, baby. That's why I love you."
He grabbed your wrists and kissed the torn flesh, blood smearing his lips like lipstick.
"You bleed so pretty," he murmured. "Like a broken doll. My broken doll."
You tried to look away. He yanked your face back.
"No more of this shit," he snarled. "Next time you feel like dying, you come to me, and I'll kill you myself. Slower. Sweeter. Make you feel it, inch by inch."
He grinned — silver teeth flashing.
"Or maybe I'll just keep you alive forever. Locked in a room with nothing but me. Wouldn't that be romantic?"
You wanted to scream.
But you nodded instead.
Because you knew the truth now.
Death wasn't your escape.
He was your prison. And he was never letting you go.
