Hate Me Love Me

20| Your Fault I'm Hurt 🛏

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍

"I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched." --- Edgar Allan Poe.

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍

'I've been waiting for you, chroma. How about you quit the screaming and clean up the mess you made.'

His words echo through my body, repeating in every organ and against every bone. My face is hot with anger begging to be unleashed. Questions aching to be answered.

My eyes trail the blood on the floor that's already browning with sickly matted clumps that were once fragments of his body. The carpet's thoroughly soaked. I don't know what to believe. The blood looks and smells so real, but shouldn't he be in the hospital after loosing so much?

'Is this your idea of a joke?' I seethe, glaring at him.

He takes another swig of whiskey from the hand dangling off the bed, and clutches the left side of his torso where the almost-black patch against his white shirt reveals the source of blood.

I walk closer, purposely avoiding the stains on my carpet. When I get to my bed, he looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows and a clenched jaw. A pained expression.

'It's not a joke. Your dad's a doctor, so I'm guessing you know the basics about stitching? Just hurry up,' he whines, his breath slightly breathy from his cut.

I'm starting to believe this is real. And that's not a good thing.

'Prove it. Show me the wound,' I say, and he squeezes his eyes shut for just a second, before placing his whiskey on the floor and using both of his hands to slowly raise his shirt. It's sticky from the blood and it's slashed from the left, confirming my suspicions.

There, on his left side, is a long, deep gash. Before I can stop it, I gasp. Wasn't he at the Halloween dance?

'You were at the dance... H-how... I don't get it,' I pull on a strand of my hair in frustration. His eyes inspect me like he trying to get in my head. Like he's trying to figure me out.

'Just stitch me up. I'll explain later,' his voice is harsh and raspy and angers me all over again. I put my hands on my hips and his eyes follow the action before snapping up to my face as I begin to speak.

'I'm calling the hospital. This isn't my business. I just want to eat ice cream in peace and forget this ever happened,' I explain, pulling my phone out of the back pocket of my light blue jeans.

'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' his words are like a warning and my thumbs become stationary above my phone.

'Yeah, well, you're not me.'

'They'll ask too many questions, and I'll tell them you did it. It'll make sense. I piss you off all the time, and you wanted revenge, therefore you stabbed me. Simple. And I won't bail your ass out of jail either.'

My eyes narrow.

'Are you threatening me?' I accuse him, feeling even more angry because he's right. They'll believe him.

'Clearly,' he states, pulling his shirt higher.

How dare he threaten me?

I look at the gash next to his abs and wince. The blood's clumping up and drying, and if it's not cleaned up soon, cleaning it up later will hurt more. Removing this quantity of dry blood from his skin will hurt like hell, not that it doesn't already.

Like the idiot I am, I sneak into my aunt and uncle's bedroom and grab a bottle of vodka and a clean towel from the bathroom. Sitting on my bed beside his body, I dab his wound clean with the alcohol. He doesn't wince even once, but his breathing quickens and his eyes stay clamped shut the entire time.