Cuckoo (Sequel to Outlaws Of Love)

One

*Tommy's POV*

Nothing.

That's what I do; that's what I feel; that's what I am.

My stomach turns at the thought of what could've happened. A thrashing pulse pounds in my head. Streams of guilt stick to my skin. Fires burn holes in my heart.

I cry until there aren't any more tears, until I can't breathe. My voice is lost and I haven't spoken. The nights are restless with no sleep. I can't close my eyes without experiencing images of Adam prepared to throw himself into death. I can't keep a meal down, so I don't eat. I lay on his bed motionless. Why should I move if there is nothing to go to?

Wrapped in blankets over blankets I am chilled to the bone.

People come and try to comfort me. I don't listen. I don't look at them. I don't care. So they just give up.

My eyes are open yet nothing is clear. A fuzzy haze covers everything. Memories of us, of him, of me, of my life, of our life, sweep through, distort reality, and blind me to the world.

My initial look of his blue eyes, black hair, pink lips, skinny jeans, tight shirt, and bright smile; the first kiss in the midst of his soft skin, my racing heart, cloudy thoughts, tingling skin, and our growing trust; that fight with my protecting need, coursing hate, rising strength, the fist throwing, blood flowing, and our final justice; Sunset Falls as it holds our secret places, mini obstacles, ocean breezes, purple sunsets, sandy beaches, a crystal waterfall, cozy tents, hot moments, false terrors, bonding times as all of us shared joyful smiles and careless laughter; the talent show when he sang to me with his voice so sweet and memorizing, after winning a trophy, a wad of cash, ending in a big celebration and with a feeling of accomplishment; the regretted night of my act of stupidity with a missing person, loss of hope, our truthful admittance, me being terrified beyond imagine with the fright of losing him over the raging river, cold air, and catching him with my arms, talking him out of it while being tied together with immense remorse... It's like a movie stuck on replay, and I can't get out of the theater.

I'm deaf from sounds of the past that pierce my ears so bluntly that I hear nothing but the reminiscences.

His soft, hypnotizing voice; "I love you"; whispered promises; songs of love; gentle pecks; compassionate tones; crashing waves; rumors spreading; evil cackles; pained gasps; cries of agony; whimpers of fear; hushed voices; tears splashing; loud eyes of blue... All of it's in my ears constantly, repeating itself like a broken record.

I am not in the real world, but a universe of what was, instead of what is. My heart won't let go, and even my mind wouldn't let it. There are too many things piled up in there. No matter how much those feelings hurt me, no matter what kind of pain I suffer from it, I can't forget. I can't live my life like I used to. Everything was easier with Adam around. Even if he was "unstable", when he smiled a rare smile it made a spark of hope ignite inside and it made me actually feel like we could be happy again; like we could go back to the way it was when we first met with that undeniable sense of love and the feeling that I just want to spend every single moment with him.

Adam came into my days, changed me, breathed life into my soul, flew me off to a better place, swelled my heart in love, treated me with everything he had, risked his life for me, and I cannot alter that. What happened happened, and there is no going back. My mind is set in stone— bitter, hard, unfeeling, inert rock. My heart broke for the last time and no amount of adhesive can mold it back together. A single solution can fix it, and it seems nearly impossible.

I'm in a comatose state, and I won't get out for a long time. The fire inside that kept me going was blown out. Not a thread of optimism is tied to me. I am utterly empty. I mean, I made Adam— the love of my life; my everything—want to end his existence. What kind of a person am I? How much torture have I made him suffer? How can I let this happen? How weak are my bones? How frail is my will? Why have I made Adam's life worse?

What has he done to deserve this? Nothing.

He is the most perfect being I have ever met. Even those flaws that he has only make him even more fascinating because of how he handles them with a grace that seems like they don't even exist.

I am just a worthless piece of shit that made him want to throw away all of his potential, all of his dreams, all of his hopes, all of his future success, all of his life. He could have done so many things without me! He could have lived without regret. He could have found someone else to treat him with all that he deserves.

He could have never found me and lived a better life.

He should have never fallen in love with me...

I did this to him. Not Allyson, not Rose, not my parents, not his parents, not school, not Collin, not Alysha, not Charlie, and no possible way him. Me.

Why do I get to live at home, in a bed, with family, around people I love and not strangers? It doesn't make sense! Nothing makes sense anymore! God, why do I always fuck everything up!? I don't do anything right!

A cold realization flushed through me... There's one thing I know I can't screw up...

It took every last ounce of will power that I had, but eventually I sat up from the barren comfort of Adam's pillow, dusted with his scent. My weak and unused legs could barely support myself and I stumbled, wobbling over to the wall for support. Goosebumps arose on my pale skin and my teeth chattered in the 65 degrees Fahrenheit room. I closed my eyes briefly to release one salty water droplet to cascade down my cheek. My heart was beating as hard as it could when in shards. I hobbled my last few steps to Adam's lonely art desk. It was just the way he left it; half-painted small canvases stacked up sloppily on one corner; paintbrushes scattered across the surface; quick sketches on thin paper. And my forbidden savior—one new, lethally sharp, precision-cutting Exacto knife.

I took a hold of the cool thick end of the knife with a shaky hand. It was rough for a good grip on the holding side. But the blade was sleek, thin and shiny. I rolled it to the side, looking straight at it. To test it, I placed the cutting edge onto the bristles of a thick paintbrush, pushing slightly down. With a few cracks it cut cleanly through, with little to no effort. My lips pulled up from my constant frown into a tight line—the closet to a smile it has been in over a week.

I slid the razor blades point to a suitable spot high on my forearm by the inside of my elbow. With barely any hesitation, I pressed it into the skin, dragging it to form a vertical line of crimson. I felt nothing, but obviously it worked—the proof a tear of warm blood dripping to the edge of my arm and letting go onto a blank sheet of paper. Such a beautiful color. I purposely placed the paper beneath my arm to make a masterpiece of the animal I have become.

On the ends of the first line, I made two horizontal cuts. They still weren't deep enough to kill, far from, actually. Instead they filled me with an adrenaline punch. The red streaks felt amazing trickling, and they splattered below. So I kept going. Subconsciously I knew what I was doing, what I was carving.

I felt like I should have been crying, I almost wanted to, but I didn't. I was completely silent. Emotionless. Blank. I was only realizing how much the color of the bright red changed thicker and deeper. There was so much blood that the individual slices weren't visible, but the aftermath was apparent. The whiteness of my skin wasn't shown, but was hidden with a bubbling layer of metallic liquid. I was on a high and I was feeling the best I had since what happened. And I knew it wouldn't last long.

Approaching my wrist, I dug the blade into my skin and slashed down quickly. A tear broke loose and a pathetic whimper escaped my lips. The room tilted back and forth, finally flipping up and sending me on my back. My head thumped hard on the ground and I squeezed my eyes shut, wincing for a moment. I didn't think anyone would come asking what happened—they probably were just thinking that I threw something in a rage again.

A moment like an unfeeling statue, then a searing, hot burn flamed up my arm painfully and numbed my body. My lips parted, sucking in a last breath of sweet air. One faint beat...

And I was gone.