young blood \\ violet x andy jb!blitz

I love him. Desperation runs my throat raw and I could feel their eyes upon my skin, their hands upon my throat. I'm dying, drowning, reaching up for his hand but in his eyes I can make out nothing other than indifference. I didn't understand, not until now, that we became strangers that day.

The tributes are led away and although the fingers tangled in the collar of my shirt are too large to be his, I cannot help but hope they are. Hope that I will turn to find the same lazy smile pressed to his lips. Or perhaps that I will wake any instant with his head tucked into my chest, early so that I may run my fingers through his hair and watch the sun claw its way out of the horizon.

It's not Andy. I know that the moment my feet leave the ground. I know better than to struggle when he takes me. Somewhere quiet, void of anything but his heavy breathing. No prying eyes, no wandering ears. My Father stands before me, a deity in his own right. Gone scarlet to the tips of his ears and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. Pungent, decayed. Lips pursed, glued together by incoherent rage but all he needs to say is laid with his knuckles upon my cheek.

(I knew it. I knew it. I knew what you were all along.)

Again. Again. Again.

It feels good.

My knees bleed when they hit the dirt.

And that feels good too.

Drunk off of despair, there is only a gentle throbbing in my temple when I manage to stand. There's no telling how bad I look, if redness has crept into the indentations left by a loving god. My father is nowhere to be found, although its clear what this meant. Come home and you'll end up like her.

I was a fool not to realize sooner that I am completely and utterly alone. With blood crawling down my lips, filling my mouth and congealing upon the ground in thick, black droplets. I was a fool not to see who I always was. Pathetic. Desperate. Too busy looking out for myself to care that others were getting hurt too.

Too selfish to stay away.

So I go to him. Stumbling into the room aware of nothing other than my hands in his hair. Feeling what was never mine. Imagining that we are we again and that he cares. That he ever did. Because I don't think I know.

And I kiss the stranger stood in front of me because goodbye tastes bitter upon my broken tongue.