Cuckoo (Sequel to Outlaws Of Love)

Ten

*Tommy's POV*

I woke up this morning gasping Adam's name again as I jerked myself from slumber. Although this time it wasn't from immense pleasure that were about to explode, but rather from the other end of the spectrum where different kinds of things were about to be felt. I was begging for his forgiveness for...something, and he just kept crying and I couldn't take it anymore. He was so unhappy and lifeless. It was a nightmare. And then I was looking at myself from an outside point of view and I was smiling and laughing while Adam at the same time was lying in his bed, staring up into nothing in an empty room.

I wasn't even thinking about how self-centered of me it was to have fun without him. Then Adam started to walk towards his door, but when he opened it there was nothing but a bottomless pit. I tried to run towards him but there were faceless, nameless people holding me back. Adam turned to me, inching backwards to the doorway with eyes bloodshot and face sullen. I kept fighting the people gripping my shoulders, thrashing wildly until in broke free into a mad dash to my black-haired lover. But as soon as I threw my hand out to grab him he fell into the black as his name left in a cry from my lips.

It had me shaking under the covers and I tried to force images of Adam alive and well in my head.

"Adam's here... He's coming back," I muttered, repeating uncomforting words to myself. "Adam's alive..."

Why did I have to think of such things? It just brought back everything that I had tried so hard to forget and ignore. But it was sadly a part of me. It came to my head more than I would like to admit. I mean even yesterday I was thinking about it as we were sledding. And I was feeling so guilty afterward... And that stupid dream just made it worse.

It was almost as bad as when he caught me and Allyson. I mean, no matter how much I hated the dream it was the truth. Adam was probably sitting alone, thinking of some way to get over how miserable he was and I was out here having fun, even while thinking of him. I never gave a second thought about how selfish I was being. I shouldn't be feeling good and having enjoyment; it should be the opposite. I should be feeling and doing exactly what Adam was most-likely forced to do so he wouldn't go nuts. But he did nothing wrong while I did a bad thing.

I curled up, bringing my knees to my chest as I shoved the blankets down from my shoulders. I rolled over to the side of the bed, fishing around under the frame until I felt a smooth box, cool to the touch. I grabbed it and pulled myself back up and laid it down on my stomach. I pushed in the small button at the front of the lid and slid it open. My heart jumped into an ice pit as I recognized the silver metal of the blade on the knife. It brought back things I'd rather not own up to. But I knew what I had to do and I went through with it, tugging my left sleeve carefully all the way up past my elbow. I had to force my teary eyes to look at it.

My chest burned as I read the ruby letters of "I'm sorry" carved into my skin. I knew what it meant and I knew that it was so much of me unfortunately. I was just so regretful of a lot of things. But it was mainly for Adam and my dad. They were two people that I drove to the brink of death, one actually pushed over by another person.  And I couldn't say how sorry was with words—it just never cut it for me, always having something missing. So when I was cutting this, even if I wasn't really realizing it at the time, it was my concluding way of showing myself that I did everything I could do to make them understand and I could just hope that they get it and if not, I did all I could. It finally made that one pin-size hole of emptiness filled.

That mission was done, but with more problems means more fixing. And as I clutched the handle of the knife, I know I needed to have another outlet, and I knew what I wanted to do. I checked the stitches, wincing as I turned my arm to see the sunlight reflecting off the fresher blood. I switched glances between the sewed wounds and the razor blade, and slowly brought the tip of the cutting edge to the horizontal stitching that was keeping the gash closed. I worked my way under it, whimpering in pain.