Crimson Night

Home : Stories by Catw00man : Dark Nights Series : Crimson Night

Summary: “It’s finally time to quit trying to stop the bleeding.”

AUTHOR: Catw00man
EMAIL: catw00man@cryptoffic.com
RATING: R, very, VERY dark themes
SERIES: Dark Nights Series
CHARACTER: Jeff Gordon POV
CATEGORY: Dark, dark angst and not so nice things.
COMPLETED: March 30, 2005 (The day after becoming a Dr.!!!)
WORD COUNT: 5,889
DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
DEDICATION: To everyone who patiently waited for this next installment while I wrote my monster of a thesis. Thanks to everyone who begged for more, and I hope I don’t disappoint. Sorry guys, I know this is extremely dark, hence the name of the series. I hope I don’t freak yall out too much with this one!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: ***** denotes flashback. ~*~*~*~ denotes passage of time.
AUTHOR'S NOTE2: This picks up a few days after Nightmare and after the race at Sears Point in Sonoma. SERIOUS WARNING HERE! This is not a very nice fic and it deals with very dark themes, pain, rape, blood etc. If that is not your thing you might want to pass this up. Otherwise, enjoy. ;-)
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Charlotte Condo: June 24, 2002 - 1:15am

I slowly stagger through the darkness trying to find my way to the light, and hiss in pain as my shin comes into contact with something hard in the pitch black of the garage. I have to catch myself on the hood of the Tahoe as I fall forward, unsteady on my feet from the alcohol I consumed on the plane. I try to stand motionless as I lean against the truck to get my bearings, but I can still feel myself swaying no matter how hard I fight it.

I’ve finally given up on appearances. I didn’t even care who saw me bingeing on the flight back, and I know I’m lucky to make it back to my house without getting pulled over or killing someone along the way. But I don’t care. After what I’ve done…what would it matter? What would it matter if I wrapped my truck around a tree? At least it would make the pain end--make me end.

I slowly shake my head as I feel myself tremble involuntarily. Nightmare. Why couldn’t it all have just been a nightmare? Why can’t I just make it all go away like it didn’t happen? But I’ve already tried that, and I know I’ll never be able to delude myself that way again. This is real. This is reality, and I’m nothing more than a monster. A monster who…

No.

I can’t go there. Not again. Not yet.

I slowly push myself away from the truck, still warm under my hands, and stumble to the door. I pull it open and step into the soft moonlight coming through the French doors leading to the patio. I pull the door shut behind me and lean back against it, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. But my mind fills with more nightmarish images and I snap my eyes open, pushing away from the door and trying not to lose my balance. I have to make it all stop.

I move clumsily to the French doors, unlocking them and pulling one open, and step into the night. The air is muggy and warm, but still I feel a chill run through me and I shiver. Absently I wonder when the last time was that I felt warm. Not even the California heat could warm the chill that has seeped into my bones. I’m always cold. So very, very cold. Except when I was…

No.

I shake my head violently, forcing me to grab the back of the chair on the dark patio to keep from falling to my knees. I can’t think about that. I can’t remember how warm and vibrant he felt underneath me. I can’t remember how he made me burn from the inside out as he touched me and moaned my name. I won’t allow myself to remember that warmth, that fire, that burning touch that is him. The perfection and completeness I felt when I was inside him…selfishly taking, mindlessly hurting, destroying…

Oh God.

I stumble forward, fall into the chair in front of me and lean over, putting my head in my hands as shudders wrack my body again. Block it out. I need to block it out, but I can’t. Not again. Not ever again. I don’t deserve to not remember. I don’t deserve to forget. Not now. Not ever.

Slowly I sit up and stare blindly into the dark night and automatically reach into the pocket of my jeans for a cigarette. Mechanically, I reach into the pack with practiced ease, unseeingly bringing the tobacco to my lips. I don’t even realize the pack drops to the ground as I reach into my pocket again for my lighter. Finally I flip open the zippo, sliding my fingers over the striker, instantly bringing the flame to life. With glazed eyes I stare into the flame, wishing it could consume me whole, wishing again this could all just end. I lean forward with shaking hands, lighting the cigarette with the flickering flame and taking a deep drag before dropping my hand and letting the lighter clatter to the ground. Again I breathe in the burning smoke and let myself relax back into the chair as I remember the last few days.

I was in denial. I know that now. I was in complete denial as soon as I ran from this house, from the nightmare and all the horrors that happened here. I couldn’t come back then. I couldn’t face what I had done, so I ran. All the way to California I ran, and for the briefest of instants, I let myself forget. How did I let myself forget? I let the bright California sun blind me to all my sins. But it was all just a lie.

I can’t even begin to understand how I did it. How I was able to pretend nothing happened the moment I got to Sonoma. But I did. I blocked it all out, giving myself over to racing completely in a way I’ve never done. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I just lost my mind for a little while. God, I wish I could do it again.

*****

As I slip into my driver’s suit and finish getting ready for the driver’s meeting, I realize for the first time in I can’t remember when, I’m actually in a good mood. But that probably just has to do with being at a road course. I feel a smile cross my lips as I think of how much fun the race is going to be. When was the last time I actually looked forward to a race anyway?

It’s going to be a good day. I can just feel it. But hey, I am “King of the Road,” right? Or at least that’s what I heard some of the media spouting off earlier. To be honest, I don’t really care what they call me. None of that matters anyway. All that matters is getting out there, stomping the field again, and winning. That’s what I do, and there’s nothing I love more. Racing is fun, always has been, but it’s nothing without winning. As long as I can do that, I know everything will be alright…even though I have this nagging feeling I’m forgetting something.

I look in the mirror once more, smoothing my hair back, and can’t help but grin. I just hope the car is as awesome as it was in Happy Hour, but knowing Ray, I have no doubt it will be. I can always count on him to make sure everything is perfect. I take one more look in the mirror to make sure I’m “sponsor worthy” and head for the door of the coach. But as I reach the threshold I have to stop. I know I’m forgetting something. I glance around the coach once more and just have to shrug my shoulders. It’s nothing, I tell myself--for what must be the hundredth time. It must be because Brooke couldn’t make the race. Yeah, that’s it.

I step into the bright California sun and have to stop for a moment and revel in the warmth of its rays. Sometimes I really do miss it here. The carefree attitude that just is California. I take a deep breath, smiling again, as I make my way to the driver’s meeting, all but bouncing with anticipation for the race to come. I just love days like this.

I spot Dale Jr. on my way through the garage and return his wave with a smile, inwardly hoping he has a better run this time. I know I would hate to be in his shoes if he tears up another road course car like at Watkins Glen. Poor kid. I can’t imagine having to answer to Dale all the time. But he’s tough. If anyone can make it in Dale’s shadow, it’s going to be Junior.

I shrug off these thoughts as I see Robbie coming my way and immediately switch to all business as I ask him how pre-race inspection went and how the car is. He assures me that everything is fine, just like I knew it would be, and I feel myself relax, my ever present smile returning. I catch Robbie giving me a strange look, the same one he’s been giving me all weekend, and I finally have to call him on it.

“Robbie, what’s the deal? You’ve been looking at me like I’ve grown a second head all weekend. What gives?” I ask with a laugh and he just shakes his head.

“I just haven’t seen you in such a good mood in a long time,” he responds still giving me a hard look. “Are you sure everything is alright?”

I can’t help but laugh as we finally reach our destination. “Alright? Are you kidding me? I’m great,” I respond. I watch as he finally seems to relax for the first time this weekend and returns my smile. “C’mon Robbie, why shouldn’t I be in a good mood? We’re at a road course. ‘King of the Road,’ remember?” I give him a smirk as I reach for the door and can’t help but laugh again. It’s going to be a great day.

Except it’s not.

I freeze the instant I step through the door and briefly meet brown eyes full of hurt, pain and betrayal. Briefly because he immediately turns away from me, moving to the other side of the room as fast as he can--away from me. Suddenly I remember it all and I feel myself go pale as my stomach turns to knots.

Jimmie.

Oh God, Jimmie.

I vaguely hear Robbie at my side asking what’s wrong, and I can’t answer him. I can’t do a thing as it feels like I’ve crashed down from heaven, back to the real world…back into hell. The room suddenly feels too hot, too bright, and it’s all I can do to keep from bolting--back to the safety of my coach, back to where I can try and pretend the last two years didn’t happen. But I can’t. They did happen, and I know I won’t be able to block it all out again.

I stumble forward, numb to the buzzing of the room around me, and fall into the first seat I come to on the back row--as far away from him as I can get. I feel Robbie follow me, sitting down next to me, asking me again what is wrong, but I have nothing to tell him. How can I possibly explain what I’ve done…who I’ve become.

*****

I think, for a little while, I actually lost my mind.

I blocked it out. Every single horrible thing that has happened to me the last few years. It was like none of them ever happened. I think somehow I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t really know, I didn’t remember. Ray didn’t leave me with no warning, destroying what I thought was a family that would last forever. I didn’t remember the slow agonizing death of what I once thought was a marriage. There were no screeching tires and screams of twisted metal. I didn’t force him, taking only what I…

No. I still can’t go there. Not yet. And I desperately wish not ever. But I know that’s all just a fantasy.

I didn’t hear a word that was spoken that entire meeting as all I could think about was getting away. Getting away so I didn’t have to see the hurt that I caused, the devastation plainly reflected in his eyes. I destroyed him…just like I knew I would.

I was a zombie the rest of the day--maybe I still am. When the rear-end gear finally gave out near the end of the race, I honestly counted it as a blessing. At least I could finally run away. Away from everything…but that’s not possible either, is it? I can never get away. I can never make things right again.

Once I finally got out of the race and out of my car, Robbie tried to talk to me again. I vaguely remember that. But I couldn’t say a word. There was nothing to say, nothing more to do. I just looked at him, broken and beaten, and his words of concern stopped immediately. I wonder what he saw? Did he see what I’ve become? Could he know what I’ve done? I shake my head slowly as it doesn’t even matter. I can’t hide anymore. I can’t play the game--I don’t even want to. What’s the point anyway?

I open my eyes, not even having realized I’d closed them as my mind replayed the day, and look down to the forgotten cigarette still in my hand. It’s long since gone out, and all that remains is a long cylinder of ash barely holding itself together. I jerk my hand and watch as the ash crumbles away, tiny burnt out cinders that slowly drift to the ground, and I realize it’s a perfect picture of my world. My life, consumed and burned away until there is nothing left, nothing but tiny fragments of what I once was and who I used to be.

I don’t know how long I sit here, staring at the scattered ashes, before I push myself to my feet. I walk blindly back through the door seeking one of the few remaining comforts I have left. Alcohol. I need more alcohol. And lots of it.

I slowly weave my way towards the kitchen and briefly wonder if it’s possible to drink enough that I just won’t wake up. How can I possibly go on? How can I possibly face him ever again? I walk into the kitchen, absently flipping on the light, and go straight to the cabinet that holds my current means of escape. I open the door and pull out the first bottle my hand lands on and start to twist the lid until I realize exactly what I’ve grabbed. My hand begins to shake as I read the black label of the vodka and I remember why I have it.

Jimmie.

I bought this for Jimmie.

It’s the same brand I downed that night at his house what seems like so very long ago. I bought this when I moved in here, hoping against hope that I could find a way to get things back to the way we were. Back before longing looks and spoken words that couldn’t be taken back. Back to when I could be with him, talk to him, occasionally even touch him, and it was all under the guise of friendship. Back when he was a part of my life…back before I destroyed him.

I feel myself go numb as the bottle slips from my fingers, shattering to the floor. I jump reflexively at the sound, even though, for the moment, I don’t realize the source. Then I feel my body begin to shake as my knees buckle beneath me and I collapse onto the floor. I’m never going to get that back. I’m never going to get him back. Everything we had, everything we could have had is gone. And it’s all my fault.

I feel the familiar darkness overtake me, consuming me, as my world becomes nothing but the tempting fragments of shattered glass around me--shattered--like the dreams of what could have been. I reach out for the glistening bits of glass, in the spreading pool of alcohol, completely shut off from the world around me.

Cold.

I’ve never been so damn cold. Blindly I gather the remains of the bottle, desperately wishing I could somehow piece it all back together--make it whole once again. But I know that’s impossible. It’s irrevocably broken. No amount of time or patience will ever heal what has been destroyed. Some things can just never be mended.

I finally look down, absently marveling at the crimson stain as it spreads across the floor mingling with the sparkling shards of glass, when I realize what I’ve done. I slowly bring my bloodied hands up off the floor, turning them over to witness the rended flesh--and I feel nothing. Not even the expected comforting darkness that usually accompanies my bouts of self-destruction.

Nothing.

Nothing but the overwhelming cold.

Mechanically I move to my feet, walking from the kitchen, my dripping hands held out in front of me. I can’t fix this. I can’t undo what I’ve done--what I’ve become--but I can at least stop the bleeding.

I slowly move from the kitchen in a daze, into the room I haven’t seen since that night. And it hits me all at once.

It’s almost like watching a movie of someone else’s life as the phantoms in the room assault my senses. I see myself pinning him against the wall, taking, stealing, using him in ways I told myself I never would. I see the other me forcing myself on him, blind to nothing but my own selfish desire and want. And I can’t do a thing to stop it. I can’t even move as I watch the phantom image grab him, pushing him across the room with no regard for his soft pleas to slow down. I see myself shove him roughly over the back of the couch, holding him down and preventing his escape. And I hear his scream.

Oh, God. His scream.

I bolt from the room, and down the hall, barely making it into my bathroom, where I collapse on the floor in front of the toilet. My hands grip the cool porcelain as I retch the meager contents of my stomach, and the horror of what I did truly overtakes me. How could I have blocked it out? How could I--even for an instant--have pretended it didn’t happen?

I forced him. I raped Jimmie.

And with that realization made anew I feel my body convulse again, trying to rid itself of all the evils I’ve done. But that can’t happen. That can never, ever happen, and the screaming in my head won’t stop even as I finally black out and slump to the floor.

~*~*~*~

“Jeff…”

The voice comes to me through the haze that is my mind and I don’t even recognize it. Shouldn’t I be alone? Who would be calling me? Maybe if I stay still they’ll just go away.

“Jeff, c’mon. It’s Jimmie, wake up.”

Jimmie. Oh God. Why is he here? Wherever here is. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be with me. He needs to leave before something happens. Before I do…something. It’s not safe. He has to go. But try as I might I can’t even force myself to move, much less speak. Go Jimmie, please just go.

I feel hands on me. One lightly tracing the side of my face, and the other gently running down my arm. Slowly, I’m finally able force open my bleary eyes which are instantly locked by warm, brown caring ones. No. He can’t do this. I can’t let him. But before I can even try to protest I hear him speak again.

“It’s ok Jeff. I’m here. Everything is gonna be ok.”

I know I should fight him, that I should make him go, but somehow his words reach me--unexpectedly calm me. And I believe him. I don’t know why, or how, but I believe him. He’s going to make everything better. He’s going to fix it all. He’s going to fix me.

Slowly I nod to him and see a blinding smile cross his face at my acceptance. Why was I pushing him away? Gently he pulls me to sitting and then takes my arm, putting it around his neck, and helps me to my feet. “Jimmie,” I rasp in a voice that barely sounds like my own, but instantly he cuts me off as he leads me from the darkness.

“It’s ok now. Everything is going to be ok. I got you,” he tells me softly and I don’t fight. I don’t even know where he’s taking me, but I know I’ll follow him anywhere. He’s the only thing I have left. Why is he still here? Why shouldn’t he be?

Suddenly I’m being laid down on something soft and I realize I’ve closed my eyes. I force them open and am once again met by twin pools of sparkling brown looking down on me. I see his smile in his eyes before I do his lips and I’m lost, utterly and completely. I’m under a spell. His spell. And I wouldn’t even dream of trying to break it.

I feel him slowly lay beside me and I turn to face him, still in total shock that he’s here with me…like this. “Jimmie,” I whisper again as I trail my finger-tips down his face and across his jaw line. I watch in surprise as he reaches up, taking my hand in his and running his thumb over my skin. Suddenly I have to gasp as he brings my hand to his lips, lightly kissing my palm and then slowly, erotically running his tongue over my skin.

I feel myself shiver at his actions, warmth flooding through me, as his eyes seem to bore into my very soul. He leans closer, and I let my eyes drift closed as I feel his soft, firm lips press to mine. His lips move teasingly against mine until I finally need more and run my tongue over his lips, begging him to let me in. I feel his lips part to me and slip my tongue into his mouth, caressing him, tasting him, drowning in him.

I slowly push him back, finally breaking the kiss to trace my tongue across his jaw line. I can feel, as well as hear, the low moan in his throat as I pepper his neck with wet kisses. I slide my hands down, running them slowly over the broad expanse of his chest, reveling in the warm, silken skin beneath my fingers. This can’t be real. This must be a dream. But as I feel his strong fingers gliding over my back, pulling me closer and closer, I know it has to be real. He’s too warm, too close, too fucking perfect. I need him so damn much.

I run my hands down his sides, losing myself to the heat of his rich skin underneath me. “Yes, Jeff,” I hear him breathe, his voice laced with passion, and I look up to meet his eyes that have grown impossibly darker with unbridled lust and desire. For me. All for me.

Everything becomes a blur of touches and caresses, skin moving against skin, as I finally lose myself to him completely, slowly burying myself within him once again. But this time it’s different. This time it’s slow and perfect as I feel like I’m melting into him. I reach for him, stoking him in time with my thrusts, as I throw my head back in the ecstasy that is him.

“Jimmie, oh God, Jimmie,” I cry out as tremors overtake me and I finally fall over the edge, taking him with me as I go. I collapse forward, my head resting against his chest, as my blinding passion begins to cool and I pull him closer, nuzzling his neck with my cheek. That’s when I notice he’s trembling and I tighten my arms around him, but his shaking doesn’t stop. I frown in concern at his actions. What could possibly be wrong? I have to make sure everything is all right. Slowly I pull away from him, rolling over on my side, and look down on him.

Dear God. What have I done?

He’s still trembling beneath me, but it’s not in desire as I thought. It’s fear. Fear I can plainly see reflected in his wide shining eyes. I feel myself run cold as I trail my gaze over his abused body. What did I do? I see three bloody scratches running down the side of his face, and bruises, bruises on his neck, his arms. How did this happen? His chest is covered in deep scratches and his lip is bleeding and I watch in horror as he curls in on himself shaking all the more.

I did this. I hurt him again. There’s no other explanation. But how? Why? Why does this keep happening to me?

“Jimmie,” I say his name desperately. He has to know I didn’t mean for this to happen. He has to know it was all a mistake. I would never, ever hurt him. But I did. I hurt him again. That’s all I do. All I’m capable of. I destroy everything I touch. What the hell is wrong with me? How do I make it stop? “Jimmie, please,” I try again and I hear a sob catch in my throat as I reach for him, touching his shoulder, trying to get him to listen.

“No!” he screams sharply at my touch, pulling even further away from me. “Don’t. Please, please, don’t,” I hear him whimpering as the tremors become worse. Oh God, I’ve done it again. How? How did this happen? When did I lose control?

As he rolls away from me I look down and realize the sheets are stained crimson. With blood. His blood. So very much blood that seems to be spreading, growing, inching ever closer. I look down and bring my shaking hands up, seeing that they are dripping with the sticky crimson fluid. Covered in blood. His blood.

The scream tears from my throat at the same instant the darkness consumes me once more

~*~*~*~

It takes me awhile to come to, my scream still echoing through my head, and at first I don’t even know where I am. Cold tile beneath me and utter darkness are all I see as I try to contain the panic I feel building in my chest at my confusion. But that’s when I finally realize I’m laying on the bathroom floor. That’s when I finally remember why I’m here.

Cold. So very, very cold is all I feel as I weakly push myself off the floor and unsteadily to my feet. I reach out blindly until my trembling hand finally finds the light switch and I flip it on, flooding the room with harsh light. Instantly I have to cover my eyes at the sudden brightness of the fluorescent lights and I briefly consider turning out the lights and remaining in the darkness. Isn’t that where a monster like me belongs?

But instead I wait, letting my eyes finally adjust to the jarring brightness around me and I numbly look around the small room. A flash of red suddenly catches my eye, at the corner of my vision, and I turn to see bloody hand prints on the seat of the toilet and a crimson smear down one side. What the fuck did I do? Please tell me it was all a dream. Please tell me it wasn’t real. That’s when I see the blood on the floor and on the light switch I was too blind to notice before.

Slowly, I lift up my shaking hands and turn them over, just as I did in the dream, and I see shards of glass embedded in my skin. The bottle. I broke the bottle. The blood is mine. Thank God the blood is mine. I stare numbly at the torn flesh of my hands and marvel at the fact that I feel no pain. No pain at all. So why is it that I still hear screams echoing in my head?

Suddenly I realize the screams I hear aren’t mine. They’re his. They’re Jimmie’s. And I fall to the ground lunging for the toilet once more. But my stomach has long since been emptied and all I can do is brace myself as dry heaves wrack my body and I convulse once again.

After what feels like an eternity I finally rest my head against the cool porcelain in front of me and am unable to hold back a sob from escaping my lips. That’s when I realize that only seemed to open the floodgate, and before I know it I’m shaking as the sobs overtake my abused body and I curl up against the wall behind me. The images won’t stop coming as I remember every single detail of the other night over and over again mixed with the horrific images of my nightmare that still seem too real. The way he winced in pain. The broken way he looked at me in Sonoma. The blood. The way I violently took what I wanted. The complete monster I’ve become.

This can’t go on, I finally realize, as my choked sobs subside. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t go on this way. It’s all just too much. I’m not helping either one of us.

But maybe I can.

I look up, vision still blurred from tears, and I know what I have to do. I know how to finally put an end to all of this pain and despair. It’s finally time to quit trying to stop the bleeding.

I put my hands to the cool tile underneath me and push myself to my feet again, not feeling the glass cutting further into my skin. I don’t notice my hands have started bleeding again as I move across the small space and turn on the water to the large tub. I watch the steaming water for a moment, filling the tub, as tiny drops of crimson drip from my hands and into the tub, slowly spreading and tingeing the water a faint shade of pink. But that doesn’t matter. It’s too late to stop the bleeding.

Slowly I pull my shirt over my head, letting it drop to the floor as I reach to unfasten my jeans. It takes me a few tries to get my brutalized hands to function, but finally I manage to undo my jeans. Blindly I toe off my shoes, then strip off my jeans, leaving all my clothes in a heap on the floor before I reach forward and shut off the water. Then I turn, move over to the sink and open the drawer on the right side. It only takes a moment for me to find what I need, and I make my way back to the tub, slowly stepping into the steaming water and melting into the back of the tub as I sit down.

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling my body relax, despite the echoes of nightmares in my head. It doesn’t matter now. I know what I have to do to make the screaming stop. I take a deep breath as I slowly open my eyes and distantly hope he forgives me. But what else can I do? I saw the pain I caused him just being in the same room as him. He’ll never let me close to him again. The thought consumes me, filling me with pure anguish, as the darkness of my world closes in on me. Shouldn’t I be numb to the pain by now? I have to make it stop…no matter what the cost.

I turn my head, in what seems to be slow motion, as my gaze finds the closed fist of my right hand. Slowly I open my hand revealing the one thing that will finally set me free…or as free as I’ll ever be. I gently shake my hand, taking the thin blade between my fingers, and watch as it glistens in the light, already covered red in my blood. Not that it matters. It will soon be covered in much, much more.

I lift my left arm from the warm water, watching the tiny droplets of water slide across my skin, and realize in that instant that my mind has finally gone silent. The screaming has stopped and everything seems entirely too quiet. Briefly I question my actions. Maybe I shouldn’t go through with this. Maybe there’s still another way.

Things used to be so simple. Back before death and dark endless nights. I was happy once--or at least I thought I was. I had everything. A beautiful wife. An untouchable career. Money. Fame. What more was there to ask for? So what if my marriage wasn’t perfect? It was safe. I was safe. I wasn’t drinking myself unconscious almost every night, consumed by overwhelming despair I can’t control. I wasn’t sitting in a bathtub contemplating suicide. But then everything had to change. Everything had to come to a horrible screeching halt.

And I can’t go back.

I’ve known that for a long time. But for a little while--for a moment--I thought I might be able to go forward. I thought I finally found something, someone, who could reach through the darkness and find me. Keep me from drowning…

Suddenly my mind is a flood of images and memories of warmth and the sun that is him. The only bright spot in my entire existence. The only one who could ever begin to touch me. His blinding smile that never failed to warm my cold heart. The mischievous look in his eyes when we knew something the rest of the world didn’t. The way we could speak to each other, with just a glance, conveying more with a look than most people can with words. I’m starving without him, and part of me can’t help but wonder if it’s remotely the same for him.

But it doesn’t matter.

I can’t worry about that now. I can’t do this anymore. The pain is just too much. I need to make it end. He’ll survive without me. I guess he’ll have to. I just can’t take him looking at me with hurt-filled eyes, broken and destroyed. I can’t handle the images of him wincing in pain--hands covered in blood--of the way he won’t even meet my eyes--screams echoing in my head--of the never ending nights alone with nothing but my own despair.

It hurts too much.

And I’m tired of hurting.

I move the blade to my left wrist, touching the point to the skin, and watch as a tiny drop of blood wells up, sliding across my skin just as the water did only moments ago. Then I press harder and rapidly slash the blade across my wrist, impassively watching as the water turns redder and redder. I attempt to take the blade in my left hand, trying to repeat the maneuver on my right wrist, but I barely manage more than a scratch as I’m unable to grip the blade tight enough. The blade finally slips from my grasp to the floor and I lean back, praying that I’ve done enough.

Relief washes over me, as I slowly close my eyes, and I know that soon all my suffering will end. I feel the welcoming darkness wrap it’s arms around me, dragging me under for the last time, and I whisper the words I wish I could tell him in person and that I hope he’ll somehow understand.

“I’m sorry, Jimmie.”

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Catw00man - catw00man@cryptoffic.com