send.

the calm

     You have another nightmare that night.

     It's cold and dark in the hotel room, but something thick and warm and horrifyingly familiar coats your skin as you stand, glass shard in hand, over Jon's corpse. He stares up at you with the same sickening fish eyes as Cass, the same eyes that haunt you whenever you think too hard about the things you've done. You watch the puddle of red around his limp body grow, seeping into the filthy carpet and leaving wine-colored stains that will never be lifted.

     The blood on your hands is so hot it burns. No matter how much you struggle to wipe it away, you can feel your skin peeling off in sheets, crisp and blackened.

     You wake up frantically clawing at your arms, a scream forming in your throat.

     The panic is quickly stifled when you feel strong, familiar arms around your waist.

     Jon, you realize.

     Jon. Your Jon.

     You settle into the mattress, keeping your eyes closed and hoping your spasming hasn't woken him up.

     As he lies still and quiet behind you, you think on that. "Your Jon". It seems more fitting than any other title at this point. You two are bound, practically in blood by now. He knows your secrets, if only vaguely, and you know each other inside and out.

     You can't imagine why anyone would be feeling lucky while lying in a cheap motel after just waking up from a horrid nightmare, but you definitely do.

     You're lucky because you still have him. Even at your worst, when things got unimaginably dark, he came back. Like always, he came back, your knight in shining armor, your protector, your rock, and he cast light into all your shadowy corners and saved you from yourself. He cleaned up your mess and your tears and tucked you in and made you feel warm and safe and loved, just like he always did. He was able to swallow the thought of what you'd done and come back for you.

     You doubt there is anyone else in the world who has the bond the two of you have.

     A smile graces your tired face as you reach down to pat Jon's arm where it rests around your waist, but you find yourself pausing. There's something wet on his skin. It's warm and, oddly enough, slightly sticky.

     Familiar.

     A knot forms in the pit of your stomach.

     Slowly, ever so slowly, like even the fluttering of your lids could wake him up, you open your eyes and look down at his hands.

     There are streaks of vibrant red everywhere.

     This can't be happening.

     Gingerly, as if the world is in slow motion, you turn your head to look back at him, to look at your sleeping savior.

     You feel your body shutting down when you see those eyes.

     They're not the fish eyes - oh no, they're so much worse. They're as icy as ever, the same beautiful blue, but they don't see you. They don't see anything.

     But yours - yours see everything.

     They see the deep gash in his beautiful, delicate throat, still seeping blood all over the white linen, and they follow that cut down to the hundreds of patternless slashes criss-crossing their way along Jonathan's motionless body, all the way to the pile of broken shards piled on the night table.

     Nausea fills you when you see that the glass is smeared with crimson.

     You feel like you're drowning, your lungs filling up, your chest closing off, looking down at your hands to see the thick substance dripping from between your stained fingers.

     This is a dream. This has to be a dream.

     You cover your ears with your sticky, scarlet palms and scream. You scream your heart out, scream until you can't feel your throat, scream until you think your lungs are going to collapse and you're about to vomit. Surrounded by blood and glass and all your demons realized and shrieking with laughter, you scream as if your life depends on it - as if Jonathan's life depends on it.

     And this time, you don't wake up.