dear violet ➳ andy biersack (currently editing)

22 - unedited till the end (i'll get around to it i promise)

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chapter
twenty one
violet

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The second I heard the door slam I felt dread course through my viens.

He was here.

Andy was here - and now that he was, I would have to do something that, god help me, I did not want to do.

I was sitting stoicly in the lounge with my cheeks long since dried forcedly over the sink and my chest aching with a rotten mixture of fear and pain.

I didn't want to do this.

There came a scuffling sound from the hallway, causing me to glance over reluctantly.

I froze.

Andy stood awkwardly, leaning most of his weight onto his left foot, as if his right ankle were severely sprained. His clothes were rumpled, the left elbow of his leather jacket shorn and dirty - as if he'd fallen against rough tar.

But it wasn't any of this that stopped my pulse and froze my breath in my throat.

It was the way he cringed involuntarily, with one arm braced against the wall to hold himself upright and the other wrapped around his stomach.

It was the deep purple bruise that was blooming out across his jaw and the wine red blood covering his face from a gash in his temple. It was his dark split lip and his bleeding nose, the tear stains against his cheeks, the way his shoulders curved inwards with pain and the haunted look casting a shadow over his face.

Panic crashed into me like a trainwreck.

God.

I leapt from the couch, scattering cushions, and rushed up to him.

"Andy, ohmygod what the hell happened?" I half shouted, frantically brushing his hair away from the wound at his temple. The graze was superficial, and the blood was already begining to dry. But the feverish blue bruise just beneath looked as if it could have been more serious. "Did - did you get into a fight or someth-?"

He gave his head a little shake, wincing slightly. "I just - nothing, it's fine - I - I fell -"

God, he was a shit liar. But I refrained from demanding the truth right then; he might have had a concusion. And what if he had broken his ribs?

"Come on, let me fix you up," I murmered, catching him by the shoulders and pushing him into one of the stools by the marble kitchen counter.

"Violet, I'm fine -" he started to protest.

"No, you're not fine! Hold on, I'm getting the first aid kit."

He was staring at the counter top, forehead creased with withheld pain, one arm wound tightly around his stomach when I returned.

He straightened instantly, wiped the blood from his cheek with one sleeve and waved me off as I moved to pour a glass of water for him to take with the small white painkiller in my hand.

"Don't worry, I can take it neat."

I rolled my eyes and handed him the tablet; he tossed it down with just a quick flick of his wrist. I pulled up a stool in front of him and dampened a torn piece of cotton with bright orange antiseptic.

"How does shit like this even happen to you? What the hell actually happened? What if you've got a concusion? Do you think you need another painkiller -? " I spewed out in rising agitation.