Finding The Write Words

Chapter Eighteen

When you lose a tooth, there's a period of time where you will continually press your tongue to the hole. You know that it's harmful, that it will only lead to infection and pain, but you can't help yourself.

You have to make sure it's really missing.

You don't feel right without it.

You don't feel whole.

People will yell at you, telling you to leave it alone before you make it worse, but you really... can't help yourself.

Virgil stared at his arm for hours.

Tears burned like fire in his eyes and he burrowed himself into his hoodie, only his eyes poking out, and he stared at his arm.

His stomach was hollow.

He hadn't made it very far from the library before collapsing to the ground, smashing his knees against the sidewalk.

He eventually managed to pull himself up from the ground, ignoring the burn in his knees that told him he had most likely skinned them, and he dragged himself back home.

Getting to the couch was impossible, however. A pipe dream. So he settled with curling up on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest and his back to the closed door.

And he stared at his arm.

He clenched his fists hard enough that his nails dug harshly into his palms.

He knew it was going to leave marks, but he didn't care.

If they didn't hate him entirely by now, maybe they would try to understand why there were marks.

Marks.

Fuck.

Virgil moved his arm aside and looked down at his knee, hooking his fingers into the torn fabric and pulling it aside slightly to get a look at his skin. He winced, hissing in pain, as the skinned knee was exposed to the air, and quietly pulled himself to his feet. He trudged his way to the bathroom and dug out his first aid kit, cleaning and patching himself up, before simply seating himself on the bathroom floor.

The living room was so far away.

And the bathroom floor was cool.

And he stared at his arm.

He had fucked up.

He knew he'd fucked up.

He had blown up at Logan, and they had only been being honest. There was nothing untruthful about what they had said... Virgil just hadn't wanted to hear it.

It was his fault that they were crying.

It was his fault for the lack of writing on his arms.

It was his fault that they hated him now. He knew it. He knew they all hated him. Logan had probably told Patton and Roman what he'd said by now, and they would never forgive him. That was why they weren't writing.

He didn't know how much time passed on that bathroom floor, but eventually, he was able to stand up, his legs aching as he did so, and he dug his pen out from his bag, scritching on his arm the two words he had a feeling they were waiting for.

"I'm sorry."

And he was.

He was sorry he had made Logan cry.

He was sorry he had yelled at them over something they were right about.

Logan replied only a few minutes later.