This imagine is not mine, I did NOT write it. S/O to the tumblr user Patrick Tree Stump who actually wrote it.
TRIGGER WARNING
Cemetery Drive
Bright lights, loud music, fancy wine, rich people, it was all too much for you. Elegant galas were never your forte, you would much rather be stuck at home with a cup of coffee, dressed in your pajamas, cuddled up in your bed, and reading a good book. No, instead you were here, in the middle of a party with the man you hated the most, your husband of two years. When you had first started dating, you thought everything would be alright. He seemed sweet, had a lot of money, a good job, and a great reputation. You didn't even question his long list of exes, and assumed he was prince charming. You even thought maybe one day you could have a family with him, settle down, live your entire life happily ever after. You were proven very wrong.
He started to drink, regularly, and developed anger issues. Sometimes he would become extremely aggressive, and usually, with you being the only other person home, take it out on you. Whenever you tried to leave, things would only get worse. Not only was he an abusive drunk, but he was also overprotective. You hated it, every single second of it, and you were dreaming of a day when you might escape. You never really believed in divorce until now. It often became hard to deal with, and you found solace within other methods of relief, usually types that involved hurting yourself. You'd find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor, quietly singing songs to keep you calm and slitting your wrists, shaky hand dragging the blade along your skin, sighing as the blood rose to the surface, leaning back and closing your eyes, wanting it all to end. Several times your husband had broken into the bathroom, wasted and glaring at you sitting on the bathroom floor, finding you a mess and only making things worse. But that was all in the past now. That was meant to be forgotten.
Because now, you were here. You were caught in the middle of a place you definitely did not belong, champagne and jewelry and light jazz and ball gowns. Your husband looked you up and down, gazing at the dress you had salvaged from the closet moments before you accompanied him to the event. You did not own many dresses, especially for events such as these, and knowing him, it wasn't like he was going to buy you one anytime soon. "I hate that," he muttered, disgusted that you would even dare to wear such a thing to a place like this. "You embarrass me."
"I'm sorry," you apologized, biting down on your lower lip so hard you drew blood.
"Don't do that," he scolded, swatting your arm as you went to bite your fingernails. It was something you did in order to calm your anxiety sometimes. "If you're really that hungry go fetch a dinner roll from the buffet table."
"Yes," you whispered. "Sorry."
"Enough apology," he snorted. "People will be wanting to greet me and my wife and I will not have you tainting my reputation. Do you understand, bitch?"
"I understand," you swallowed uncomfortably, the words resting in your throat.
"Good," he sighed, fixing his tuxedo. You eyed the several people coming to greet you and you straightened your back, raised your head up, brushed a strand of hair out of your face.
"Ah what a pleasure it is to meet you," a lady grinned, shaking your husband's hand. She was wearing a gown the color of gold, intricate detailing covering the fabric, a bright ruby necklace adorning her skin. She turned towards you and her face crinkled up, the way they do in movies when someone smells something putrid. Just the sight of you must've offended her. "And this worthless peasant, the one dressed in the trashy garb, this is your wife?" You shifted nervously in your stance, trying to hold back the tears threatening to fall from your eyes, push down the quiet comeback you had saved for moments like this, attempting to steady your ragged breathing and rapid heartbeat.
"I wish I could say otherwise," your husband closed his eyes, frustrated. He couldn't even look at you. You could feel bile rising up in your throat, and you couldn't take it anymore. You glanced behind you at the table, snatching up the keys from beside his wine glass, then quickly hiding it behind your back.
"I feel sick," you murmured. "I think I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air."
"Smart idea," the lady eyed you strangely and watched as you staggered away. You forced yourself to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach as you crossed the gathering area, pushing past the crowd of people, noticing a drunk police officer passed out in a chair. Your mind was whispering for you to grab his gun. To take it and point it to your head, end your misery, get it over with. It would be best for everyone, right? You glanced around, then quickly approached the officer, listening to his muffled snores as you carefully slipped the gun out of his belt, then darted out the door.
The cool wind on your face made you smile as you crossed the parking lot, and you felt free, almost. You could never truly be free until you were done with this all, until the bullets from the gun were stuck in your head, when you could finally rest and not have to worry about waking up. You inhaled a shaky breath and started towards the car, a fancy convertible of course, unlocking it with the keys and sliding them into the ignition, slowly rolling out of the parking lot and driving down the road. The moon above glowed furiously, lighting up the dark sky, a light fog scattered in the distance. Not many cars were on the road, the traffic lights worked in your favor, and all was going good. You were going to do this and nobody was going to stop you.
A graveyard caught you eye as you drove past, and your mind began to wander. Maybe it was best if you took a turn in, killed yourself in a convenient place, that way nobody will have to carry you very far. This way would be best, most efficient, smart. You had already caused enough hassle, the least you could do was already have your body in the cemetery. Your eyes stared at the fully loaded gun you had stolen, placed in the shotgun seat of the car, and you parked by the mausoleum. Steadying your shaky hands, you picked up the gun and took a deep breath, opening up your car door and getting out, trying to walk in a straight line. Why were you so damn nervous? You should be happy, brave, courageous even. You were finally doing the right thing for once in your life. Right? You closed your eyes tight, trying to take control of yourself and your emotions, then walked towards the small crypt, sitting down and leaning against one of the pillars.
Moonlight glinted off the tombstones, etched with names of people you had never met, and you began to wonder if maybe even one of the souls within this wretched place had ever felt the way you felt right now. You were curious if anyone else buried here was drowning in suicidal hopeless thoughts right before their death, if they had stared down a barrel of a gun like you were doing now, if they had ever been abused so bad they wanted to end their own life. You began to feel dizzy, and you swallowed down all your doubt, staring at the gun, beginning to cock it ready when you heard something, someone, approach you. It was footsteps, not too noisy, but just enough for you to hear, and you averted your gaze, eyes searching for the stranger until you heard a voice. "You okay?" they wondered. It was a calm voice, a man's voice, and you turned around, eyes meeting his. He was short, black hair combed to the side, dark brown eyes, covered in tattoos, concerned expression on his face, dressed in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, holding a bottle of beer.
"I'm fine," you reassured, your voice wavering and about to crack.
"Sure," he replied slowly. He sat beside you. "Why are you holding a gun?"
"I don't know," you shrugged.
"Geez," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You won't stop lying, will you?"
"Shut up and offer me a drink," you mumbled, reaching for his beer.
"Fine," he decided, handing you the bottle. You guzzled it down graciously, the liquid sliding down your throat and resting in your stomach, and you began to hate yourself. This was poison you were holding to your lips, the same poison that created a monster out of your husband, the same poison that tore your relationship apart, the same poison that created the slits on your wrists and the bruises on your body and the deadly thoughts in your head. Just like your pathetic excuse for a husband, you were too falling for this poison. But it wouldn't matter, would it? You would be dead soon anyways. "You're dying, you know."
"I know," you nodded slowly, handing him back the bottle of beer. You glanced at the gun in your hand, becoming unsure of yourself again, and so you gripped it tighter, hoping to find confidence. Instead you found your eyes becoming wet with tears, and you fought to hold them back, for the stranger's sake and not yours, but he looked at you with those dark brown eyes and you couldn't help it.
"And on top of all of that, you're crying," he chuckled. "Do you care at all?"
You didn't answer, teary eyes still staring at the gun in your hand, holding on so tight your knuckles turned white.
"Are you even there at all??" he frowned, touching your shoulder. "Are you thinking right?"
"I know what I'm doing," you inhaled a shaky breath, shrugging off his hand on your shoulder.
"Do you want to die?" he wondered, taking a long sip of his beer.
"Who even are you?" you finally groaned, throwing your gun to the floor in frustration, glaring at him. "Why do you care at all?"
"I'm Frank," he replied. "I'm drunk and lonely and I'm worried about you. Because well, if you shoot yourself, then I'll be stuck here in the cemetery outside the mausoleum door with a dead body. And that kind of makes me look bad, you know?"
"Oh," you murmured, not finding his humor amusing, but instead pulling your legs up to your chest and slowly curling into a ball, wiping the tears off your cheeks and staring at the gun now thrown at your feet.
"Will I ever get to learn your lovely name?" Frank inquired.
"I'm y/n," you responded. "But I'm not all that important, really."
"I think you are," he insisted, taking another gulp of his beer. "Because look, someone issued search lights, and I can bet a hundred dollars they're not searching for me."
"Oh shit," your eyes went wide. You saw the crowd of people outside the gate, the glimmer of lights in the distance. Instinctively, you quickly picked up the gun, about to cock it and end this all.
"Woah!" Frank reached for your hand, swatting the gun away. "I can't watch you kill yourself, y/n. I just met you."
"Well I can't let them find me either," you begged desperately. You both turned your heads instantly, listening to the crash of the cemetery gates as they swung open, flashlights shining furiously and a frenzy of angry voices audible.
"Who are they?" he asked. "Why are they looking for you?"
"They can't find me," you shook your head, starting to turn crazy from the suicidal thoughts swirling around in your mind, you reached for the gun again, but Frank only moved it further away.
"You need to go back home, get off the run," he shook his head. "This isn't healthy for you."
"You don't understand," you closed your eyes tight. "I can't go back. I won't." Flashbacks of your husband hurting you crossed your mind, moments of yourself alone in the bathroom with a blade, times when your body was covered in purple and blue, memories you'd much rather forget. If only Frank knew. You looked at him, eyes pleading with desperation and exhaustion, nowhere else to turn, and his expression softened, somehow understanding.
"Okay," he agreed. "But another way. You can't kill yourself, y/n. You just can't. I won't allow it."
"Then help me escape," you whispered. "Please Frank."
"Where's your car keys?" he asked frantically. "We don't have that much time."
"I left them in the car," you explained.
"Then let's go," he decided. "We have to hurry." You raced to your car, hopping in the shotgun seat as he turned on the ignition, flooring it immediately.
"Holy shit!" you exclaimed, the fast pace catching you off guard.
"I do have to admit," he laughed. "I'm a little drunk."
"How many beers have you had?" you shouted, clutching onto the door of the car as he zoomed past the graves, making a beeline for the gates, the same gates crowded with people carrying flashlights. "Slow the fuck down!"
"I can't," he apologizes. "I don't remember how."
"You're going to kill us!" you cried.
"Like you'd care," he scoffed. "I thought you wanted death."
"Not like this!" you groaned, your heart almost jumping out of your chest watching the people run out of the road as Frank swerved like a maniac, going onto the main street.
"Hey, I'm helping you escape," he reminded. "You should be thankful."
"I would've driven if I knew you were this drunk!" you explained. "Geez Frank."
"Goddammit," he muttered, looking in the rearview mirror.
"What's the problem?" you asked, worried. It was then that you noticed the flashes of red and blue following you, the noise of sirens, the loud voice in a speaker shouting at you to slow down.
"What do you think is the fucking problem?" Frank hissed, taking a sharp turn and completely running a red light. "This is insane!"
"Why were you even in the cemetery in the first place?" you asked.
"You really want to know?" Frank sighed, increasing the speed by ten miles. "Right now out of all times?"
"Well if you keep driving like a maniac then we might never get to have that conversation," you sighed. "So I might as well find out while I can."
"I was the one who was going to kill myself," he stared at you. "I had it all planned out, had a pill bottle in the pocket of my sweatshirt, beer in my hand, finally ready to say goodbye and then this lady leaning on a pillar of the mausoleum comes along and ruins everything."
"Oh so now it's my fault?" you raised your eyebrows.
"No," he shook his head. "You made me stop."
"What?" you looked at him quizzically.
"I don't know, it sounds crazy, but something about you... It made me not want to do it anymore," he sighed, zooming past an intersection and the car growing quiet, nothing but the distant sound of sirens following you.
"Are you lying?" you wondered. "Or are you actually real?"
"It's true," he replied. He quickly reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt, throwing you a bottle of pills, and your face fell. "You saved me, in a weird, twisted way."
"So what? You saw me pointing a gun in my face and you just changed your mind?" you asked in disbelief, glancing at the medication in your hands. "Just decided not to?"
"You reminded me of someone I saw in a dream," he finally confessed. "She was covered head to toe in bruises, and hiding in the bathroom, she was singing some song, I don't remember, and she had a blade to her arm. There was something about her that was hauntingly beautiful, something I couldn't quite place, and it made me want to save her."
"Frank-" your voice grew soft. How could he possibly know about any of that?
"I know, it's weird, I'm drunk, I'm probably out of my mind-" he began but you shook your head.
"No," you protested. "It's um, it's great."
"I'm sorry," he sighed.
"Why?" you asked, him jolting the wheel to the side as he turned, the sirens sounding almost on your tail as he pressed the gas pedal even harder.
"I just met you and I think..." he shook his head. "No."
"You think what?" you asked innocently, secretly hoping he might reveal something else he thought about you.
"I think I might love you," he barely whispered. He turned to stare at you, his eyes melting your heart, and you looked at him, parting you lips about to respond, when he leaned towards you, kissing your lips, surprising you. You widened your eyes, pressing your lips to his, the feeling absolutely indescribable, the car going faster and faster and before you could comprehend what was going on, the collision of your kiss faded away and everything turned white.
At first, it was the sirens growing loud, shattered glass, jolting forward, all the bones within you collapsing, and then a metallic taste in your mouth, arms wrapped around you, someone shouting your name, a burning sensation all throughout your body, and red and blue everywhere.
"Y/n!" you heard his voice, and he was shaking you, begging for you. You opened your eyes, staring into Frank's gorgeous brown ones, holding onto the last thing that kept you alive. "Please don't go, please don't leave me, I need you."
You could see the hurt in his eyes, and the blood everywhere, and you could tell he was hurting as much as you were. He was holding on, barely able to stay alive, just like you, so close to getting what you deserved. "Frank," you shook your head, bringing his lips to yours for the very last time. "It looks like we both finally got what we wanted."
He stared into your eyes, understanding what you meant. "Let go," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "It's okay, we'll be together."
"Promise?" you asked, trying to breathe, but it felt like your lungs were being crushed, you felt like you were falling apart, barely able to just breathe.
"I promise," he replied. So you did. You closed your eyes, his arms wrapped around you, and you were drifting away, falling, crashing, sinking. You were sinking slowly into death, crashing into fatality, falling down, way down, way down, way down...
This imagine is not mine, I did NOT write it. S/O to the tumblr user Patrick Tree Stump who actually wrote it.
