These Paper Pages

Sail (Jeraphina)

TW: Character death/s, murder, non-canon.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

This I how I show my love

I made it in my mind because

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Static. His mind is filled with static. It's like being submerged deep underwater where the pressure builds in his ears and all he can hear is the ringing white noise and his throat constricting as he tries to breath the liquid in. His chest burns with every heaving gasps he takes, the water filling his lungs. He is drowning.

John pulls his head out of the water, his eyes fixating on his reflection in the mirror. A soft, pitiful excuse of a laugh escapes his lips, he can barely recognise himself now. His dark hair frames his face in messy, unkempt chunks and a pair of visible dark circles embedded underneath his eyes reminds him of the nights he'd stay awake and stare at the ceiling. It was always the same thing, her face haunts him in his dreams and his waking hours.

It didn't matter if his eyes were wide open or screwed shut, Seraphina is always there.

He scoops the water in his hands and splashes his face, hoping he'd wash away her memory piece by piece. John never does, of course. How can he forget her? How can he forget someone so vividly imprinted in his memory? How can he forget such brilliant blue eyes as she stares deep within him?

He takes a deep breath and scoops another handful of water and splashes his face once again. Nothing could erase such expression from his mind, such hauntingly beautiful and yet terrifyingly morbid and twisted expression. There was so much blood.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

This how an angel dies

I blame it on my own sick pride

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Their relationship was barely hanging on a thread. Nothing could have saved it and yet he had desperately clung to the hope that if they held on, everything would work itself out. It never did. Day by day, their relationship was growing more and more turbulent, like a ship sailing in a storm. There was only rivets of heavy downpour and neither of them can see what was in front of them.

His stubbornness and strong-will, once she had admired them, now that admiration morphs into animosity as John refuses to compromise or even see her side of the argument. Her indifference, something John had thought to be attractive, only angers him now. The love that they once had, it was slowly fading. Like smoke, it was slipping past their fingertips. And yet John had desperately begged her to stay, because they could work something out. He promised her. He promised her that it would get better, that he would change.

It never did and all it caused was more suffering.

John tries not to think back, but he does. He feels the rush of blood in his veins. The adrenaline. The crushing realisation that she's gone, and it was his fault. All his goddamn fault. He falls to his knees, a sob ripping past his throat as he doubles over, fingers tangling with strands of hair as his nails scrape his skull. And John screams, raw and filled with so much emotion. He screams, his fingers digging into his skull. He screams as he curls into himself, tears rolling down his cheeks and his lungs felt like fire as he heaves with every breath.

There was so much blood. So much blood.

She looked like a poor caricature of an angel seeking peace only to find terror in the last fleeting moment. The pool of red surrounds her like a vicious, sanguine halo seeping through her clothes, matting her hair. John feels numb as he stares down at her features, blue eyes wide open, her mouth agape as the last sliver of breath leaves her lips. The gaping wound on her throat continues to bleed.

Her blood is so warm on his hands.

He feels sick. Realisation dawns and his hands shake, the knife slipping from his grasp and he flinches as it clatters against the tiles. John feels sick. He can feel the warmth of her blood on his face, rivets of red tracing the curves of his cheeks, pooling at his chin.

drip. drip. drip

Tears muddle with blood. Red. there was so much blood. So much red. It coats his hands, seeps through the sleeves of his shirt, it stains her dress and mattes her hair. Warm. It sticks to his hands, filling the gaps between his nails and skin. It sticks to his face before it gently glides down his cheeks and pools at the bottom of his chin. It sticks and seeps into his clothes, he can feel the wetness of blood clinging to his upper torso and his knees and down his legs.

He feels sick and dizzy, the world spins and dark spots dances in his vision.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Sail in the dark with me

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

The smell of rotting flesh greets him as he enters the basement. John gags and bites back the bile rising from the pits of his stomach. He can hear the buzzing of flies and John takes a shaky step towards the lump on the floor covered by a simple blanket. Whether it was morbid curiosity or his denial of his capability of taking someone's life, nothing could prepare John from the sight of Seraphina's decaying body overrun by maggots eating away at her flesh. He drops the blanket, quickly turning heel to make his way back up the stairs, John stops and doubles over, retching his breakfast and eventual bile and it leaves a bitter residue in his mouth.

John glances back and shivers, the sight was enough to solidify his determination.

The smell of gasoline burns his nose. John clutches the lighter and the handle of the canister in his hands, this was the point of no return.

Earlier today he had went to the petrol station, filling at least six canisters with gasoline, excusing it as heading for a long road trip and not wanting to stop for fuel. He laughs softly as he remembers the jovial face of the cashier wishing him a safe trip. If only she knew. He tucks the lighter away in the back pocket of his jeans before he grasps the canister with both hands and tips the contents out. He watches as the clear liquid trails after him as he walks down the kitchen, dosing the remaining untouched areas with gasoline. John tosses the empty canister to the side and makes his way back to the bathroom which houses the small, portable gas canister with both valves open. He coughs, the putrid smell entering his nostrils and burning his lungs. He can't stop now, he has gone too far. The gasoline could never compare to the smell of her decaying flesh, this was the only way he could burn away her memories.

He removes the lighter from his back pocket before he steps into the bathtub. The coolness of gasoline nips against his skin, John couldn't contain the shiver that races down his back. Swallowing thickly, he settles himself in, sinking back into the bathtub. John closes his eyes and with a flick of his finger, the world catches fire.

And John burns with it.