dear violet ➳ andy biersack (currently editing)

14

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[ ! trigger warning !
descriptions of self-harm
descriptions of suicide

please skip this chapter
if this will affect you ]

chapter
fourteen
violet

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He was banging on the door, but I didn't want to listen.

"Violet! Please! Let me help you!" His screams were desperate, his voice cracking over the last word.

I could hear him hammering his fist over and over against the whitewashed door.

He was begging, the fear in his voice turning him vulnerable, desperate. It was so very out of character. And it was all my doing.

I was ruining everything, one last time.

It lodged something in my chest, enhanced the pain in my head, brought the tears tumbling savagely down.

Andy was half pleading my name, as if he were inconvievably at my mercy and I were utterly merciless. He was in pain because I was in pain. We were a stupid terminal showdown with linked hands. It wasn't sweet. It was godawful. He'd likely remember this forever.

But I could barely hear him over the memory of Ashley's voice.

She's insecure.

She could hurt you.

I sat with my back to the bathtub on the cold white bathroom floor and pressed the edge of the razor to my left wrist.

My veins were delicate and blue, running like bomb wires beneath my pale skin. They appeared naïve, uselessly dumb, operating out of primal routine, fragile as china cups.

All the sweetest things wind up killing you.

I remembered Andy's voice, the way he'd so self-deprecatingly murmered the words. As if he knew he were in way too deep, but just couldn't do a damn thing about it. As if he wanted me to drag him through hell, so long as it meant he could hold my hand.

All the sweetest things wind up killing you.

Andy's cries echoed through the cluttered bathroom. I could hear the panic in his voice, the terror. I was hurting him. It had been a fucking prediction. I was like a landmine beneath his feet, bound to rip absolutely everything in his line of vision apart. I hurt him every goddamned second I spent with him, whether he knew it or not, every time he caught a glimpse of the jagged pink scars straight as twigs, running parallel, one after the other, all on the insides of my arms. Every time he tried to hide his horror when he caught me looking, looking at the rooftop edges for too long, the rainswept streets far below, every time he tried to pretend that I had not been thinking about killing myself.

I was hurting him. I had hurt him, I would hurt him and he was better off without me. It would traumatise him to find me dying, bleeding out in his hotel bathroom, but I was also doing him a favour in the long run. I was doing the whole world a favour.

I closed my eyes and slashed.

A burst of pain lanced up my arm, and a wet warmth cascaded instantly down my hand, dripping to my faded jeans.

I was going to die now.

I was actually going to die.

My breaths started coming hard and fast, pins and needles began hammering at my face and legs. A familiar adrenaline.