Cutter_659 has a minion!

Alone the Wintersong

Pet Profile by SubetaHQ.

Adopted 5/12/13. Thank you so much!

It’s all in his head.

Or maybe it’s not.

He must be imagining it, or maybe he’s in a dream. A distinct, vivid dream that is supported by logic.

It must be so. Because this can’t be real.

He’s frozen in place as she stares at him with an emotion he can’t describe. She looks at him with wide eyes but her brows are furrowed, maybe slightly angry, or perhaps frustrated. Angry? Why would she be angry at him?

Her lips tighten a bit and stretch, a pale version of its usual candy red. She hasn’t applied make-up today, and it shows. There are dark purple circles around her eyes, and her cheeks are sunken in and sallow. She looks straight out of a horror movie, but still, she’s beautiful to him.

He should’ve known; he should’ve guessed. He should’ve; he would’ve; he could’ve. But he didn’t, and it all built up to this—the catalyst, the king of all catalysts. But maybe, if he had tried a little harder, looked a little closer, he would have found the girl with a broken smile, and he would’ve patched her up with some tape and band-aids, and they wouldn’t be here.

But he hadn’t seen, and they are here. So now what? Does he crack a joke; does he explain to her the depth of the situation, and tell her that it would be a bad choice? That this is just a phase, that it will all get better?

But he can’t tell her that it will all get better. Because it might not. Because that is a lie. Because things don’t always get better; sometimes, they only get worse.

He can only stare at her, and see the remains, the echo of a girl she used to be, and wonder why he hadn’t seen this earlier. Why he hadn’t seen that she was dying inside, that every laugh, smile, and joke was fake. Why he hadn’t seen the scars on her arms. Why he hadn’t seen that underneath her hard, cold exterior, there stood a girl who was trying to shelter her already broken heart.

But really, he knows the answer. He hadn’t been paying attention to her; he hasn’t been paying attention to her. He hadn’t really bothered to care for her for a long time. The fame got to his head, and foolishly he had thought that girls and money was all he needed. But it wasn’t; it isn’t. He forgot something—he needs her, too.

And now he’s here.

And now they’re here.

He wants to say something, to break the silence, but no words come to his mouth, so he stands there, staring at her, begging her with his eyes not to do it.

And she stands there as well, her hands shaking a little, her eyes begging him to leave. But still, her clammy hands clutch the gun securely.

He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t see her like this. Even though he knows it’s so, so wrong, he takes one step backward. Her eyes catch the small movement, and they begin to shimmer with unshed tears, but her face is not angry. She understands. She knew this would happen, that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, save her. Not really, not in the true sense.

He takes another step backward, still not saying anything. The fear is written all over his face. Fear of what will happen if he stays, fear of what will happen if he goes.

One more step back. He’s already in the doorway. One more step back to freedom. Just one more step is all that lies between him and ignorance. It’s fight or flight, and he chooses flight, every single time.

He takes in the white crisscrosses on her legs, her bony arms, the way her legs are so thin that he could easily wrap his hand around them. They tremble, maybe because of the fear, but maybe because they’re so frail they can’t hold her up anymore. And her eyes plead for him to go; they plead for him to stay, and he hesitates for one moment.

“I love you,” she says hoarsely. Her eyes widen slightly after, as if she herself is surprised by the words that come out her mouth, but then they narrow again and she steels herself. She’s ready for the consequences for a slip of the tongue like that.

He contemplates her words for half of a second and then says in a rough tone, “You’re a coward.” The harsh words slip from his mouth easily, as smooth as silk. It scares him how easy it is to him, being cruel.

She remains silent. She had expected that, but still, a tear leaks out of her eye, and traces its shining path down her cheek. Just a few more minutes, she tells herself. She knows she wouldn’t if he just asked her to stay. But he doesn’t.

He feels no remorse, not in the moment, when he’s so angry. At whom, he’s not sure. Her? Or him? All he knows is that the fury is rising up in him, like boiling hot steam forced to stew in a covered pot. The pressure is getting higher and higher.

He looks at her for a second, takes in her limp, dirty hair, the dead eyes, and the baggy clothing that hang there on her tiny frame.

And takes one more step back.

Then he’s running, running far, far away, to get away from all the memories, to get away from all the flashbacks and the little voice in his head that’s yelling at him, telling him to run away, telling him to go back.

But he’s not fast enough. A loud gunshot rings through the air, and then, a few seconds a later, a loud thud follows it—the sound of a body hitting the floor.

And he runs away with tears in his eyes, refusing to acknowledge it, because it gives him a brief respite from the clutches of his hateful mind. You’re dumb. You’re stupid. You could have stopped her. You should have known.

And while he’s running, the little words drop from his mouth like accusations: “Coward, coward, coward."