Possible triggers: self harm, panic attack
Brendon's POV
"I'm sorry."
It was said as a whisper as though he was ashamed of his feelings. He bowed his head, so he was staring at his fidgeting hands. My breath hitched as he spoke the detrimental words. I didn't know what to do. I just sat in silence. Pete had indirectly admitted the thing that would ultimately be the end of all things us. What was I supposed to do? This meant a whole year of my life had been thrown away. I couldn't handle the fact that this was it. This was all that would happen between us. An uncomfortable lump in my throat began to grow as the realisation of what Pete had confessed would do to us.
I stood from my ironically comfortable position on the sofa and picked up both of our mugs, both nearly full but Pete's more so, to take to the kitchen. I could tell that I had gotten Pete's coffee wrong again by the grimace it caused to appear on his face as he took the first and only sip before he politely set it aside. I messed it up. I couldn't even get his coffee right. I messed it up just like I mess everything up. No wonder he didn't like me anymore. Maybe this was for the best but for now, I just needed to let go and release the building feeling of hurt inside my chest.
I pushed the kitchen door open with a shaking arm and closed the goddamn door behind me. I gently placed the mugs in the kitchen sink and took a deep, uneasy breath before I turned away to face the way I entered. I stared at the wall for a moment and then finally let the suffocating lump in my throat take over. I let the tears flow and my breathing become heavy. I sank to the cold tiles of the floor against a cabinet door. I pulled my knees against my chest and started to aggressively pull at my hair. My sobs began to get even louder with each passing tear. Pete would soon here me. I was probably annoying him. Another reason to why he shouldn't like me anymore.
Everything was getting too much. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't stop my thoughts from taking over, from eating me alive. I was worthless, I felt worthless and I felt like shit. And through all of this I just cried pathetically on the kitchen floor while frantically tugging at my hair and banging my head hard on the cabinet door behind me in a futile attempt to knock these corruptive thoughts out of my mind, ignoring the growing feeling of liquid against my fingertips. I stared blankly at the tiles beneath my feet, trying to focus on the details and the plain pattern to distract myself. But it was too late, I couldn't even save myself now.
All because I would probably break up with my boyfriend. How pathetic. The knife that lay on the counter top began to look rather comforting. Maybe it would be. There was only one way to find out.
Pete's POV
What had I done? I knew about Brendon's anxiety and ADHD, yet I still chose to tell him something that would most probably trigger any hidden thoughts he kept from me. The pang of guilt I had felt earlier was now an agonising ache in the pit of my stomach that only grew by the second.
My guilt soon became the least of my problems as I heard a muffled banging sound coming from the kitchen. At first, I thought nothing of it, but the sound kept getting louder and louder and Brendon's crying became more and more prominent. I decided it was finally time to check on him when I heard the clanging of metal against the kitchen tiles. I stood abruptly, leaving my phone behind that was now pinging with a notification. I paced quickly towards the kitchen door and swung it open as I heard a gasp of pain from the other side.
Brendon sat against a cabinet door splattered with blood I could only assume was his by the pool of crimson liquid that was forming on the white pearly tiles from the stream of the same substance that trailed down the back of his neck. He continued to smash his head against the door despite the continuing mess of blood and what I assume to be unimaginable pain. But that wasn't the most worrying sight.
As my eyes trailed down his trembling form, I saw a knife. He was holding it with a death grip with a shaking hand, just staring absently at the possible weapon of suicide. He slowly raised his eyeline to face me. He sucked in a sharp breath as he looked into my eyes. All I saw was despair. A single tear fell from his bloodshot eye before dropping the knife with a clatter of metal against tile. He choked out a low sob and bowed his head, his shoulders hunching over with his head in his hands.
