Send me §, for my muse’s reaction to yours slowly slipping a knife into their chest.
[ NO LONGER ACCEPTING ]
If he lived, he didn’t think he’d be able to forgive her, but it wasn’t for her driving and twisting the blade into his gut. The physical pain was nothing to him, it was nothing in comparison to how he felt after she said what she did.
”—unlike Isaac who is in a long-term relationship with self-hatred.”
The way she said it, so nonchalant as if the fact he despised himself was nothing more than a joke, a point of reference to further an argument she never should have made in the first place.
”What, I’m not supposed to know how much you really don’t like yourself? I’m not much of a friend if I don’t notice that.”
Her sneer was seared into his mind, as if it was somehow his fault. As if he didn’t matter. After something like that, he wanted to hurt her as well and the only way he knew he could, was to shut her out.
He knew that he had hurt her but until the moment he felt the cruel comfort of the blade, he hadn’t realized just how much.
“I’m s o r r y .”
Because even when in the face of death, though she was the one at fault, he was guilty. He drove her to this. Summer wasn’t a murderer, at least she hadn’t been before he came along. At first he denied her love, then her friendship and now he was paying for it, there was nothing he could do, nor nothing he wanted to do to stop it.
It sank in, slowly inching it’s way to his heart. The cold tongue of the blade creating what felt like a tornado, sucking away his breath as his think, hot blood rushed to meet it like a messy, red, embrace.
He should have come to see her. He should have known it was time to accept her apology when Winter came to see him. She had been so worried about her sister, so protective so— they were family. Winter didn’t care what Isaac had done to her sister so long as they worked it out, but there was no working it out anymore. There was no more time to reconcile, to rebuild the friendship she broke and that he promptly destroyed.
He could have saved her if he had just forgiven her, he could have prevented her from taking this step; from taking his l i f e .
”I was just so—”
He was forced to stop speaking as the metallic, iron taste of his blood reached his tongue; he was drowning in it. He could feel himself slipping away as the knife slipped deeper, eager to meet his skin and beyond what it held. His vision began to dim, blackness taking it over as a thick trickle of red began coming over the rise of his dry lip, dripping down onto his chest from it’s place at the corner of his mouth.
”—h u r t .”