Bring Me Home // Phan

60

Phil's POV

There was silence as she finished talking.

"Thank you." I calmly stood up and walked out to my car.

My steps were heavy, as if weights had been tied to my feet.

I felt drunk, nauseous even.

My driving was too quick, too unsteady.

But I didn't care.

What was there left to care about?

Why should I care about stupid, irrelevant things when my fucking boyfriend is in hospital dwindling between life and death!?

That's why I didn't make dinner when I stumbled into the flat.

That's why I didn't change into new clothes.

I just found my bed and wept.

Then I slept.

Morning came around and the sun beat down on me, making me groan and shade my eyes.

My head pounded and I felt almost hungover.

I hadn't eaten anything for a while.

My mind was cloudy, foggy.

Idiot.

Stop whimpering.

Feeling sorry for yourself whilst your friend is in hospital?

Memories came flooding back to me.

His hands, limp against the side of the bath.

Skin slashed open and blood pouring out.

Lifeless.

Fuck.

How could he hurt himself like that?

I didn't understand.

You never do.

My feet dragged me over to Dan's bedroom.

The bed was still unmade.

Curtains drawn, light shining through.

Things that he'd thrown off his desk in his breakdown still lay scattered across the carpet.

I should've known he wasn't okay.

I shouldn't have left him.

The bathroom door was still open and I stepped inside.

Dried blood covered every surface.

The sink.

The floor.

The bath was still full of diluted red liquid.

My eyes stopped as I saw a blade on the floor.

My fingers shook as I picked it up.

How did he do it?

Just drag it down?

He did it for a reason.

It helped him.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had the blade pressed to my own wrist, and tears were splashing off the surface of the metal.

Just...

Press...

Down.