Blue House | Tronnor

Chapter 17, Connor POV

I looked at him through tired eyes. He sat slouched against the headboard of my bed, his eyes closed and his nose ring gleaming in the pink light of the  sunrise. It was early if I could see the sunrise. My head was reeling--what had happened? I remember him singing, and I remember wanting to fly, wanting to reach out and touch the clouds and soar so high I never came down. I remember the deep ache I felt when I heard his voice. I couldn't describe it, but it was like a pain that caressed your face gently. He had sung, and he had coaxed out all my fears and trapped them in a box for the night. It had numbed my pain for a night. I tried to remember last night, but only bits and pieces flew back to me. I concentrated, plucking the shards of memory out of my brain and piecing them together, remembering his song.

I see your monsters.... I see your pain

Tell me your problems, I'll chase them away

I'll be your lighthouse, I'll make it ok....

When I see your monsters, I'll stand there so brave.

I didn't remember the rest, I had fallen asleep. My eyes fell back to him, watching him sleep. His hair was trying to decide between sexy or messy, so it had settled for a messy-but-sexy look of its own, and he looked... Exhausted. He would be, he must not have gotten much sleep last night. I looked down at my wrists, remembering the cuts. He had seen me at my worst, my darkest moments. He had seen my previous scars. Yet he hadn't left me. Why? You're just a stupid, fat, ugly loser. It was probably just sympathy. I shook my head, mumbling, "No. N-no!" Fresh bandages were applied to each red line, and the dried blood was washed off, but the numbness on my wrists was starting to wear off. They hurt, now that I was awake. Good, you deserve it, whispered the voice in my head. "No! St-stop..." I whispered. I didn't want to think right now. I had questions, and my emotions were a train wreck, but I set that aside and shut everything out. I burrowed down into my sheets and slept. 

"Connah?"

I rolled over, rubbing my eyes sleepily as the sun hit. Blue eyes stared back at me from under a mop of chocolate curls, and I brought a hand up to my temple. Ouch, I hate headaches, I thought. "How are you feeling?" Troye asked, sweet but a bit nervous, and I sat up quickly, suddenly angry. How was I feeling?  Truth was, I was feeling downright awful, thanks for asking.

"How do you think I'm feeling Troye? Huh? I fainted in a bathroom past midnight after cutting too much, only to be saved by none other than the person--" I caught myself mid sentence, choking. "The person what?" he asked gently, reaching out for my hand. I swatted him away. "Don't touch me! I was saved by none other than the person who left me. The person who made me believe I was worth it. The person who made my stomach go mad with butterflies, The person who kissed me on New Years, and then says he has a boyfriend, and just walks out of my hospital room with said boyfriend! And then goes on tour for eight months without speaking to me! The person who haunts me, and that person is you, Troye! I--" my voice broke, and I shuddered, whispering, "I thought you cared." He sat for a moment, calm, before standing and beginning to pace. His hands ran wildly through his hair, and his breathing was coming faster and faster with each step. My brow creased, and he turned to me. "You seriously have the nerve--" he started, but I cut him off. "Why did you come into my room anyways? Why did you help me? I don't need your pity, I don't--" he rounded on my, seething. "Are you serious, Franta? It's not pity, it's thoughtfulness! It's me giving a shit! How dare you say I don't care? What's more, you have no fucking idea what Edsta was like to me. Or even how long that lasted. And yes, I'm on tour, I'm doing what I love. Sorry that my whole entire world doesn't revolve around trying to get ahold of you! Because I tried, oh, did I try. For months! And not once did you pick up, or even read a single message I sent! So don't act like this is my fault!" He was shouting by the end, and I was cowering in my bed, half under the sheets. He fumed, still breathing heavily, and then plopped himself on a heap on the floor, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He's right. It's all your fault, just like everything else in this stupid world. Nobody cares about you. The voice was back.

He said he cared, I protested.

Pity is what that was. He feels bad for your sorry excuse of a life. You should just end it, nobody would care, purred the voice. My hands were back at my wrists, clawing feebly, then stronger and stronger until the ace bandages were gone, discarded off the side of the bed. My short fingernails scratched at the already painful clashes, and a tear dripped from my cheek. Part of me wanted to stop--I knew I shouldn't be doing this--but the voice urged me on, making me paint darker crimson strokes of pain on the crisp white sheets. I heard a sharp gasp, maybe mine, but I ignored it, scratching away at my inner wrists.

Then I felt arms.

They snaked around my torso, binding my biceps to my ribcage, squeezing me tightly. I struggled, straining and thrashing about, but the arms locked onto me and pulled me down. Legs were on either side of me, and my head leaned back to rest upon a chest, with a steady heartbeat. I was sitting in Troye's lap. His long, thin, nimble fingers traced my jawline, moving up above my ear and running through my hair, twirling small locks gently. I glared up at him, fighting again, writhing upward. He kept me locked to him, though, and I gave up after several minutes of protest and struggle. I lay there, limp, and the only thing that I could say was, "Why?" He frowned, continuing to stroke my hair, and responded with, "Why what?" I let my head slump to my chest, sighing.

"I have a lot of whys, Troye," I whispered. "Like what?" he asked again, rocking from side to side. I swayed with him, almost like I was drunk. But I knew I wasn't drunk. Being drunk never hurt this bad. Being drunk didn't feel like anything. 

"Like why do I hate myself? Why am I so fat? Why can't I keep the people who are most important to me? Why do you care about me? Do you even care about me? Why are you doing this? Why am I still alive? Why is everything so... So..." I trailed off helplessly.

"Confusing? Difficult? Unpleasant?" he asked, filling in for my lack of eloquency. I nodded, a tear slipping out of the corner of my eye. He smiled thinly, then said, "As long as you have people to help you through the struggles, you can survive." I blinked the tears off of my lashes as he continued. "Like when I had my panic attacks and you were there, when you jumped off the pier, or when you saved me from the plane crash." I sniffled and nodded, looking up at him again. "But I can't do that anymore. I can't do anything anymore, because I'm a weak, worthless peice of sh--" I began, but Troye shushed me. "Connah, you aren't worthless. You can do almost anything you want, it just might be harder to do now that--" his voice broke, and I felt guilty again. I was putting him through this anguish. Troye gathered himself, finishing with, "Now that you feel this way." I swallowed, each word feeling like a fresh cut on my arm. He rubbed his hands up and down my arms gently.

"Besides, maybe it's my turn to protect you," he whispered softly as we fell back against the headboard. "Will you give me a chance to explain?"

I hesitated.

Would I?