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I Held the Knife [John x Reader]

Our hearts are glass and when we casted our respective stones, we watched it shatter and fall to pieces. The pain was sharp, sharper than knives, and we drew blood, dyed our blades in red and fell apart. His anger, it burns him, defines him and she was right, he was a monster. A monster on his own right, but so was I, and so were they; while his anger defines him, their– and mine, as well– our hypocrisies defines us too.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asks quietly.

We are hidden from the world, hidden by the long vine-like branches of the willow sweeping against the grassy earth. John had both of his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes glued to the earth as if he was studying every single blade of grass by his feet. I can't blame him, after what he did and what I feared to do, I wouldn't be able to bring myself to look at anyone at all. Silence blankets us as I try to string together my response, fingers curling and unfurling as I fidget with the hem of my shirt.

"I was scared." The words left my lips with a slight tumble, they were caught in my throat. The truth is difficult to tell, after all. "You're capable of many things, John. And I'm scared of them." I feel his gaze burn scars into my skin and in reflex, I hunched my shoulders, arms wrapping around myself as a source of comfort.

"I would have never hurt you." The sincerity in his voice muddles with hurt and a tinge of righteous anger, it was painful to hear because a small part of me knew that. He loved me and I loved him, I still do but if I can't trust him to not hurt me, then it's better that I walk away now before we further hurt ourselves.

"How can you be so sure? You didn't even think twice to hit Claire, why would I be any different?" I gazed up to him, challenging him to meet my gaze, to prove my words wrong. "Give me one good reason to believe you." My fingers clenches the cloth of my shirt, nails digging into my skin as I continued to speak.

John's expression twists into anger, his mouth closes and opens as he attempts to formulate a response but no words escape him. He turns away, and I feel a sudden surge of righteous triumph come over me but guilt and shame squashes just as quickly as it came. He pushes himself up, dusting himself before he pushes past the tangled vines of the willow, John steals one glance and the way his eyes darken cuts me. The fire that had once burned behind those golden eyes are snuffed, I am looking at a hollowed shell of himself.

"I hope you're happy." Were his last words before he slips away, the willow obscuring him from my vision. A soft, quiet laughter leaves my lips before it falls away to quiet sobs. Perhaps it was only me who held the knife the entire time and in my own fear, I sunk it in his back and pierced his heart along the way.