the beautiful grave (book II)

what have we become?

frost

Frost couldn't believe what he'd just gotten himself into. It couldn't possibly be real, could it? This harsh reality where he'd chased a frightened Lily into the woods just to find out that she didn't...

     She didn't know him.

     He cried all the way back to his dorm, where he locked himself in his room and let it out.

     He couldn't believe this, he'd spent all this time wondering if she was alive and she didn't even remember him? What the hell is that all about? How could she forget?

     He ripped the arrow from his skin without cringing, threw it in the trash and then caught on to the sight of his fridge and blipped his way over towards it. Opening it, he found the refuge he'd been looking for.

     It was a shame he could never get drunk, but he would gladly drown himself within its poison, hoping it was killing everything in its path. Never mind Skye, his death was in his hands, taking his life slowly.

     He'd drained two bottles by the time someone knocked on the door.

     "It's locked for a fucking reason!" He screamed, pulling an arm back and propelling the glass to it. It smashed upon impact, pieces on the floor. He'd get someone to clean it up for him; maybe even Violet, the dim bloody dog.

     The door knocked again. He growled.

     "I'm not in the mood! Now leave before I rip your throat out."

     Well... that was a lie, he wouldn't harm anyone here, not even if they'd done him wrong. They all knew it too, but most of them wouldn't risk the chance.

     As if by magic, he heard the creak of the door opening. Nostrils flaring, he put his drink down and sprinted there, capturing a dark russet wrist within his grip. He didn't notice at first, because all he was thinking was, I want to kill you.

     He could distinguish the sharp smell of pride. Even now, there was only one person he knew like that.

     "Pierce," He hissed, remembering all too well the battle that happened between them last time they met.

     Because of his ex-boyfriend, a young man by the name of Brad Stone ended up in the morgue. His Lily had been devastated, she held his dead body for more than two or three hours. Not only did Sunday blame him for her brother's death, but she detested him more than anybody had ever before.

     He gritted his teeth, loosening his hold.

     "What are you doing here?" He insisted, hating how he suddenly wanted to look down Pierce's shirt. He should be thinking no such things.

     The man had nerve to straighten his jacket as he slipped from his hold.

     "The delightful Miss Stone contacted me, if you really must know." He said simply, as if it was obvious. Frost groaned inwardly, that girl had it out for him. "She said my presence was much needed during these delicate times. So, to what do I owe you the favor?"

     Frost deliberated on whether or not to tell him, deciding to go for the latter.

     "Sunday shouldn't have interfered. I'm handling things very well on my own."

     "Please, Penn, I was only asking, no need to shout. FYI, I agree you're not doing a good job. You seem a little... troubled." He settled upon. Frost glared, once again a visit from him wasn't going to turn out pleasant. "Does your state concern a certain Miss Red?"