dear violet ➳ andy biersack (currently editing)

37

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chapter
thirty seven
violet

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Under the sheet white hospital lights, with his head propped up against the pillows and his thin eyelids folded shut, he looked damaged.

I hated seeing him like that.

So stripped of strength, so buckled, so heavily sedated.

His arm was in a fresh cast, his bruises fading to soft yellow splotches and lavender stains.

The hospital room was cold and clean and pale, with baby blue curtains and shiny machines that flickered or beeped.

The feverish orange light of a dying sun slanted through the ward.

I held Andy's hand.

His knuckles bore thin vein-like scars and the black on his nails was beginning to chip again.

I thought vaguely of all the things those hands must have touched, held. All the memories packed into those brittle scars and marks and callouses. Dark silver microphones and ivory piano keys. The glossy sides of CDs. Scratched doorhandles and greeting hands...
Me.

Footsteps pattered past the door and carried on down the hallway, squeeking slightly against the linoleum.

My eyes flicked up to Andy's face.

He looked like a rebellious angel.

Something precious and finely crafted that didn't want to sit still and poise, but engage in the clashing of thunder clouds, the breaking of mountains and the churning of seas.

He had gone out and explored the world, gone out and faced the world, and now he had the scars to prove it.

The moments passed and the silence breathed, before eventually his eyes flickered open and a little smirk curved up the corner of his mouth.

"Violet," he said quietly.

It was stupid, but I felt something flutter in my stomach at the way he said my name.

So full of love and want.

I smiled softly at him. "They arrested my parents. Everything's fine now. It's completely over. Everything."

"Violet," he repeated, reaching up his good hand to run his fingers along the side of my face.

I felt my cheeks grow warm, felt the glowing trail left behind, the tingling ghost of his touch just underneath my skin.

"Come here," he whispered, gently guiding my chin down to his mouth.

His breath was warm, his lips soft against mine. I couldn't help but lean in, drag my fingers through his sleek black hair against the pillow.

His fingers curled at the nape of my neck, prompting a slight shudder to role down my spine. I felt him smile against the kiss and slowly pull away, leaning back into the pillows to catch his breath.

"Andy?" I asked.

"Yeah?" He arched an eyebrow.

"I really, really like kissing you."

He laughed, and the sound worked its way through my ribs and into my ruby red heart, warming me from the inside out.

"And I like kissing you too, Miss Sharp."

• • •

andy

Apparently one of the resteraunt's waitors had heard gunshots and alerted the police.