Warning: OOCness. Major.
I reposted this because my original one-shot collection idea didn't work out so well. Oh well.
.x.
The Notebook
.x.
It's… addictive.
Telling yourself that you'll be dead… by your own hands.
He seems to think so.
It's raining. I can't help but watch each droplet hit the window, my chin resting on the pages of the notebook and the knife in my fingers.
'I don't like myself.'
'I don't like myself at all.'
.x.
He's always had that frank way about him.
"Look, if you're going to do it…
Then. Do. It."
He tells me crossly, shoving the box cutter in my face. A breeze floats into the room.
All I can do is look down, staring at the words across the paper. It's filled with 'I hate myself' and 'I hate myself completely' scribbles, ones in which he scoffs at. He's the master of death and murder, and in his sick, twisted way, all he wants to do is help.
Even though I called him in the first place.
But I can't. The flowers spinning in the wind outside the window are too promising. Spring's passing quickly.
.x.
"I've got things to do," he says, crossing his arms below me. He's in that black outfit like some fucked-up nun.
"Thank …you… for staying anyway…" I say to him.
He snarls, pointing at the knife he brought me from the kitchen. I quickly look down at the notebook, a coward. The summer's getting to me, sweat dropping from my chin.
'I hate myself.'
'I hate myself completely.'
Those words stare back at me, mocking me.
.x.
He's got nowhere to stay tonight.
So he's staying with me. He's chosen the floor, tucking himself into a corner and sleeping with his head against the wall like one of his beloved tree branches that he likes to nap upon.
His chest rises and falls like the ocean under his black clothing, his breath the crashing of waves. I'm staring at him from the bed, under the covers and partly wishing that he was with me.
We have the window open, he claiming that he cannot sleep without the natural sounds of the outdoors.
In the darkness, I flip to the next blank page of the notebook, and scribble to the best of my ability in the moonlight:
'I like him.'
'I like him a lot.'
.x.
…The pen is mightier than the sword…
.x.
I'm sitting on the floor.
He's on the bed, gazing out the window.
Leaves have been falling for quite some time: a parade of oranges, reds, and yellows. They're attaching themselves to the screen, blocking most of my view out the window.
He's got nothing else to do but stay here with me (even though he won't admit it). He's got the time to watch some depressed teen kill himself, looking on and encouraging me to do so.
It's like he wants me to.
Even while I'm crouching, he's still short, but I can still capture his lips with mine, the taste of blood still lingering on his tongue. In the autumn, he's still got a thirst for it. I push him down onto the bed, the notebook falling off onto the floor.
The page has turned once more in the tumble, revealing the next thought:
'I love him.'
'I love him a lot.'
.x.
It's snowing.
Not surprising, considering it's already December, late in the winter.
But he's mad.
I'm not cutting. I'm not crying. I'm not dying. He's threatening to do it himself, smacking me across the face a couple of times.
I tell him over and over.
"I don't want to anymore."
"I don't want to anymore."
"I just want you."
He's waiting long enough to see me die. He's waited long enough to taste my blood, only to come up short and have an angst-ridden teenager begging at his feet to stay.
"I don't want to anymore!"
"I don't want to anymore!"
"I just want you!"
.x.
He growls. "I'll do it for you."
He's pulling out his sword.
At my neck, it swipes.
Smiling at my red, sticky skin, he claims his victory.
.x.
…but actions speak louder than words…
.x.
Author's Note: People in this fandom don't know my weirdness. Oh well.