Stay ; Tradley

O N E ; tris

-

I smash my hand through a glass window.

There's blood everywhere. And glass.

A part of me wants to take a picture; the other half of me that has sense soon runs along and can't stop thinking about the weight in my chest and the rock in my throat.

Why the fuck do I do this shit?

Though I can barely move with how heavy my chest feels, the rest of my body is a feather. It's light; maybe numb? Maybe the alcohol is finally working- maybe it's already slipping through my system.

But I do know about the ringing in my ears, the throbbing in my bleeding hand and how I am slowly watching the blood drip onto the hard concrete.

With the hand that's not got shards of glass in it, I ease my phone from out my pocket and call the only contact I can rely on; while the rings call out and echo of the empty walls of my head, I kick around the glass from the bus shelter- I'm damn lucky no one saw me do that.

I don't fancy another ASBO.

"Tris?" I can already hear my best friend standing up and getting dressed.

What the hell would I do without him?

"I'm sorry," I mumble, chewing on my nails that are already in stubs while I pace- there's only one light on in this foreign neighbourhood, and as I look through their window I see a scrawny girl leaning over a bong.

"It's okay, where are you?" Brad's soft voice sounds urgent- I can hear the sleep dripping from the back of his throat while those words of his slur. I sigh, an urge of anger coming rushing through my blood again.

I boot the curb. Another bad idea; if you haven't gathered yet, I, Tristan Oliver Vance Evans am the king of shitty decisions.

"Tris? Calm down, okay, that's not going to help anything." Didn't know he could hear my curb-kicking. Whoops. "Where about are you?"

I take a deep breath while I hear him start his car.

"East side of town, by Tescos." I whisper, already shrivelling from the disappointment oozing through the phone.

Speaking of oozing, my hands still bleeding. Yummy.

"Why the shit are you on the east- actually, don't worry. I'll be there soon."

Rain begins to pour as I wait for the curly haired boy to arrive, and I sneak away into the bus shelter which doesn't, in all honesty, offer much shelter at all (probably my fault). And soon enough, my blond, messy locks are stuck to my pale face and I'm shivering. Should have brought a coat.

But soon enough, a familiar shitty silver car pulls up on the curb, with a window already pulled down; I'm greeted with sweet, tired eyes and a typical Bradley grin. Nothing like that smile, even at 4 in the morning.

"Get in loser, we're going shopping." I laugh, shaking my head while I stand up. Typical brad; I try to cover my hand from the rain that makes it sting, also slightly, maybe, and totally trying to hide it from Brad.

However, mission is soon aborted when that smile slips away as his eyes lay onto the mess that should be my fist.

"TRISTAN OLIVER VANCE EVANS." He says, and I briefly think he's actually shit himself for a moment. Those brown eyes widen as I moves forward gently to touch it and get a better look.

"Still. Hurts." I hiss when he pokes it.

"Of course it does you dickwad, you've got glass in it." He lectures, sighing. "And don't even get me started about you thinking you're snazzy hanging about in Islington! I'm surprised you didn't get damn shot-"