i've bled too long | {ventus blanchard}

.  VENTUS BLANCHARD  .
so i bare my skin
and i count my sins

He loved the dark once.

He loved the sounds of his little brother sleeping in the bed next to him, the night creatures preaching their sermons for nothing in particular, and the sounds of soft wind through the limbs of the willow tree outside his home. He loved the crisp air the silent world offered, the rush of being alone, but never feeling that way. He loved the night, but now he lived in it.

Every time he closed his eyes, even for the slightest moment, fear consumed him. (It was supposed to be you, Ventus. It was supposed to be you.) His eyes became home to dark circles from a lack of sleep, his mood irritable and lonely, oh, so l o n e l y.

It was the first time he had really tried to do something about his fear, swallowing his own pleas to just go back inside, get to safety because they'll get you, Ventus. You'll be next! He swallowed his pride, not even caring that tears clouded his vision and dampened his cheeks. He was only human, and barely that anymore.

An owl seemed to sense his fear, hooting and cawing and flapping his wings, doing whatever he could to mock the poor boy, and also whatever he could do to terrify him, so he ran. At first, only a slightly upbeat walk, but soon a sprint, as fast as his feet would let him, certain they were always right behind him, suits of white dyed silver by the moon, guns and batons and those menacing expressions, letting him stay just out of reach as if toying with him like a pack of cats with a lone mouse, and finally came to a stop.

As if the night was not already terrifying enough, he had chosen a graveyard as his destination. The wrought-iron gate squealed a sign of danger, and he pushed through it anyway. It had been about a year since he visited this place, and it haunted him every day. Too many times, his dreamscape was taken over by corpses crawling from their resting places. Rotten, flesh-dissolved monsters. Random strangers, dead relatives, even past tributes like Aelia Vanderwell crawled toward him, lifeless eyes trained on him like they were starved. But one person in particular always led the escapade, and that person was Gavin Barker.

Ventus wouldn't blame him if he died hating him. He couldn't have. (It was supposed to be you, Ventus.)

He found himself at the base of the boy's grave. Flowers decorated it, and his name was displayed in proud, bold letters. "G A V I N B A R K E R" and Ventus felt the space where his heart once was shudder, because for a moment, he could have swore his own name was in Gavin's place.

Wasn't that how it was supposed to be?

"Why did you do it?" he choked to the cold tombstone. "You could have lived, dammit! You could be perfectly fine!" He fell to his knees, once again overcome by grief. "I didn't want this! I didn't want anyone to die for me! And now look what it has done to me!" Nothing was the same when he watched Leon jab his spear into Gavin's skull. He had gone deaf after it happened, and he forgot how to breathe. "It's okay," Bryony had claimed, but it wasn't. Nothing was okay. He missed him now, wished he had treated him better. But Bryony was just another thing Ventus didn't deserve. What else was it he didn't deserve? Suddenly his pocket felt heavy, and he reached in to pull out an orange bottle, capped in white, sounding like a baby's rattle when he shook it.

"But I'll pay you back, Barker. I'll make things the way they were supposed to be."

And with that, he tore off the cap, and turned the bottle up. Bitter pills filled his mouth, and he shook with fear.

(He was so tired of fear.)

What else didn't he deserve?

Life.

So he swallowed.

and i close my eyes
and i take it in