fire always burns itself out.

*        @cruelety        /        ashton

❛    i    don’t    think    i    could    ever    be    in    love    with    him  .    ❜        fork    pokes    at    the    food    on    your    plate  ,        eyes    glancing    up    at    him        (        the    boy    that    really    brings    butterflies    to    your    stomach      )  .        ❛    god    i’m    an    awful    person  .        travis    is    great  ,        he’s    so    great  .        i    just    don’t    know     …        if    we’re    right  .    ❜

 ╱    “WHY DO YOU TREAT ME LIKE I’M NOT IMPORTANT TO YOU?”

❝     oh     - ——-     please,       i don’t do that.    ❞              but you do,         you know you do,        and you know you don’t know how to STOP yourself from doing it.         it’s just what you’re used to,          treating people as if they’re only temporary in your life because that’s what you need to believe          (        you have always feared what may come if someone is to stay.           what kind of cobwebs might they find if they break through those walls?         will the cracks of them cut?           can you handle the inevitable rejection?         you know you can’t.        )           

you won’t answer the question;      you’ll only avoid it         (        HE MATTERS.        why must he make you say it,          why can’t he focus on the way you show it?         or have you even done that?      )           ❝     why are you acting like it matters?    ❞           turn it around on him,          the attention on yourself only does you well when it’s positive,          never when you’re forced to face your deepest fears and insecurities.           ❝    don’t make me the villain.          you are no prince charming.    ❞

  ↷    @bloodyraw, @cruelety  ╱   ☾

IT SHOULDN’T MATTER TO YOU.    you’ve gone years without caring for the opinion of others,    concerned only with what makes you feel better,      the selfless turned selfish.    how others perceived you no longer mattered,    until her.    she started off as just another girl,    just a way to waste your time and avoid the countless battles you face in your head,     but she’s more than that now.    far more.     that’s why it bothers you when she acts like you’re just another guy,    despite knowing you’re not.    even your deepest insecurities aren’t enough to blind you to the fact that you do matter to her,     even if you shouldn’t.    because if you didn’t,     she wouldn’t be wasting all this time with you.     even boredom wouldn’t bring anyone to this;      you know,    because tedium has been the driving force of just about every fling you’ve ever had.

YOU’D RATHER COMMIT MURDER HERE.      her very existence enrages you,     fills your mouth with the taste of acid,    stains your vision red.    all because of her past with dakota.    your dakota.     otherwise,     you’d be indifferent.    you wouldn’t even notice her,    much less think about her.     instead,     she crosses your mind from time to time.     sometimes,    it hurts:     imagining dakota leaving you for her.     for anyone,     but now your imagination has a face to put in your nightmares,    as irrational as it may be.     you don’t know anything about their previous relationship;     you don’t know how or why it ended.     all you know is that it happened,     and a part of you fears that if dakota could have been into her once before,     it could happen again.      (     a fear that’s fueled not by mistrust,    but self - hatred.      you know you don’t deserve her,    that you don’t deserve anyone,     so it’s so easy to picture her leaving.     )

harley should be dead.     you don’t know why dakota left her alive,    why she insists on leaving her alive now.     she’d let you kill her,    you’re pretty sure,     but that’s not the point.    the point is that she hasn’t.     that she keeps saying she will,     only to put it off.

it would be so easy to reach for your gun,    to put a bullet right between her eyes and end the voices in your head.      (     end the specifics,     at least;      you’ll still be afraid of being left for someone else,     even if you have nobody to be jealous of.      )      or you could just stab her,     gut her right here.     of course,    strangulation,    while boring,     would be less messy;     you’d only have to worry about the body,    not the blood.

❝   JUST YOU?   ❞       is that supposed to comfort her   ——   ?         she has to be on guard at all times;       she always has to be aware that the worst can come at any moment.       they’re not a TEAM.      they’re not working together.     trust will never come between them,     at least,     not if he’s a supernatural creature.       that makes him the ENEMY no matter what he intends to do for her     (    in turn,     she believes that just makes him a pawn   ——      BUT SHE’S NAIVE even when believing the worst in creatures like him.    )     ❝    you don’t tell me when to put the gun down.      i put the gun down when i’m ready,  ❞       she insists,    though she never feels safe enough to put her weapons down,     not around here.     still,    she’s much better at feigning her strength and masking the fear than she is not.     arms come down,    glare still present on her features as she looks up at him.      ❝   tell me you know what their plan is.  ❞  

❛    yeah   ,      uh   ,      i’m   fine.      it’s   just     …     my   boyfriend   & *   i   are   fighting.      i   think   um     …     we’re   gonna   break  up.      so     …     i   need   a   place   to   sleep.    ❜

‘        IT’S  A      BUNCH,      NOW    ?          huh.          thought it was just you and your girl.          see what i mean      —      ?          he doesn’t tell me anything.        ’          because your best bet,      clearly,      is to not only      hedge      but to hedge with a flicker of      derision.          he’s right   :      you’re getting defensive.          you tend to do that when somebody      calls you out.          you have no idea what he’s expecting,      no idea what he wants you to      say      —      hey,      you got me,      i know you kill people and feed him the corpses but don’t worry,      i won’t call the cops    ?          bristle a little,      shoot him a scowl that belies how      unsettling      this is.          ‘        can you not fuckin’ smile like that    ?          he’s not a      child,      i don’t ask who he’s hanging out with 24 - 7.          he knows how to handle himself.        ’

ace wasn’t born hard of hearing,   but thanks to years of exposure to gunshots,   especially when not wearing ear plugs,    he suffers from hearing loss.    his right ear isn’t nearly as affected;    in this ear,   the hearing loss is only mild,    so he can hear indoor volumes + louder on this side.    his left side is far more damaged due to price shooting near this ear in attempt to stop him the night ace killed him.    his hearing isn’t all gone,    but all “inside voice” sounds are muffled,    and generally,    he can only really hear significantly loud noises through this ear,    or hear if the sound is very close.    

for a while,    he didn’t wear any sort of hearing aid,    because he didn’t want to go through the trouble of getting any,     but after getting nearly killed multiple times due to not being able to listen to his surroundings as well as he used to,     he got hearing aids for both ears.    they’re not noticeable,    though he wouldn’t really care if they were.    obviously his hearing still isn’t as good as it once was,     and he’s unable to hear really quiet noises at all (quiet noises that would still be loud enough for most others to hear),     but it’s far better than when he did without them.

❝    fuck.   ❞    the curse is mumbled under your breath,  unable to be stopped as your shock continues to make forming coherent and helpful sentences kind of impossible.  you don’t expect him to be any kind of okay,   not really.   you can imagine after the loss he suffered that he’d be anything close to fine but the question stumbled from your lips before you could stop it,   train of thought hard to keep track of as emotions flood your systems so much that your vision is blurred with both tears and the buzz from the liquor you’ve been sipping (chugging).    

you remember that night so fucking vividly,   you remember the screams,   you remember the way flesh smells as it’s burned,   you remember the way a boy’s whole life is so easily destroyed by flame and you know that he definitely does too.   you wish you could take away all his pain,  take away that night from his memory and hold all the guilt yourself   (out of the both of you,   you’re the one who deserves it).    

the boy you used to know is not the one who stands in front of you,   the boy you used to know was pure,   too kind for his own good.   that boy didn’t deserve to lose everything,   that boy didn’t deserve to be left alone screaming while you stayed frozen in your place,   either too drunk or too terrified to figure out what to do.  you wish you could go back to that moment,   you wish you could scream in your own face to call emergency services straight away,   to run outside and try and help,   to do anything other than nothing.    

you wish you knew how to apologise for what you didn’t do that night without bringing it up,   you wish you knew how to tell him that you’re sorry for not being more,   for not being someone who could’ve saved him,   who could’ve saved them.   you wish for a lot of things,   most days spent wondering how different things would’ve been if you could fix your mistakes.   isn’t that so tragic?   to be so stuck in the same spot because your heart is still stuck in a time from years ago?   

you never moved on,   you doubt you ever will.   you also doubted you’d ever see him again.   a part of you assumed he’d be dead by now,   that part of you kind of hoped he was   (not because you didn’t want him to be alive,   but because you didn’t want him to still be haunted by what happened like you are).   the other part still held out hope,   front door left unlocked most nights just incase he came around,   ear always listening out for his voice in every crowd even when you didn’t know you were doing it.    he was your friend,   more family than your own blood was most days.   yet here he stands,   changed but still the boy you grew up with,   still the boy you’d do anything for.

❝    you  ——  you’ve been alive?  all this time?   ❞    you don’t blame him for not coming back,   the sentence is more spoken with relief.    ❝    i  …   fuck  ——   ❞    your voice cracks,   emotions making your throat feel tight.   a tear slips down your cheek but you don’t care enough to wipe it,   you also don’t care who see’s.   for once,  you don’t care about appearances.  you don’t care who see’s you falling apart,   who see’s you as something other than the perfect boy   (you haven’t been that for years,   maybe you never were that.  you had them all fooled,  though. until the fire happened.   they never suspected how broken you were,   how quickly you were falling to pieces).      

❝    i’m sorry.   ❞    bottom lip trembles,   hand moving up to wipe tears as the apology you’ve been holding in for years finally passes through your lips,   the one you never thought you’d get to say out loud.   you want to hug him,  to hold him so tight that you can know he won’t disappear but you’re frozen in place.   unable to breathe properly let alone move closer.    ❝    i’m so fucking sorry   ❞

CAN HE SEE IT?   can he see that you’re no longer the boy you used to be,    that the light was drained from your eyes,    shoulders weighed down with a guilt that you can hardly bare?     he has to,    because that’s all you see when you look in the mirror.     you see the scars,    the anger,     the lack of hope,     everything that ashton never had.     does it make him as sick as it does you?     does he feel as though he’s about to vomit,    because this,    whatever it is you’ve become,     is not what you were meant to be?

you assume that he does,     because you can’t imagine why he wouldn’t.     but the relief in his voice suggests otherwise,    and though you suppose it should fill you with a feeling of ease,    all you feel is guilt.     he must not believe you killed them.     you know that most people interviewed about the incident didn’t.     it’s better than those that believed you had,     but that’s closer to the truth.    because you did kill them.     even if your hand was forced,     even if you had a gun literally held to your head,     you still set that fire,    knowing fully well that the family inside would burn alive.    

you just didn’t know that the family was yours.

his words confuse you for a moment,     because you didn’t think that anyone assumed you were dead.     maybe it makes more sense that way;     maybe they expected that you loved your family so much that you wouldn’t want to live without them.     that’s not wrong.     you can’t remember how many times you’ve stared at a loaded gun,    a knife,    the speedometer of a vehicle hurtling too close to a bridge,     only to come to the conclusion that you deserve this:     you deserve to live,    deserve to suffer without them,     carrying what you did to the grave.

alive isn’t the word you’d use to describe yourself.      your heart’s been beating all these years,    of course,     but parts of you were dead.      and for the longest time,    you felt that way,    too.     it only changed when you met dakota ——       the opposite of everything claire coleman was,   and therefore the opposite of everything you thought you’d want years ago.     falling for her didn’t fix you;    nothing would.     but,   with her,    you have a reason to live,    other than your own punishment.

you don’t know how to tell travis about her.

it doesn’t matter right now,    you realize,     because there’s more important things to talk about.    there’s the fire to talk about.     you don’t want to,    but you know it’s there,    that it’s important.     it’s not something you can just ignore,     especially not when he had to see the aftermath every day he came home,    next door to the house burned down by the family’s own son.     

this leads you to question you will never bring yourself to ask:    what happened to the house?     you remember seeing it on the news,    a sight that made bile rise in your throat,     that had you doubling over a trashcan for what felt like hours,    but had only been ten minutes at most,     until your mouth was stained with your own blood,    stomach too empty to rid itself of anything else.      you remember how you couldn’t even see the white paint anymore,    replaced by black soot,    left side of the house    (    the side you lit    )     caved in and reduced entirely to ash.     did they rebuild it?     restore it to the way it was,    even if it’s rightful family could never step inside those walls ever again?     or did they run it down completely,     only to build something else.    something that some kid wouldn’t burn down.    you don’t ask this,    because a part of you doesn’t want to know.     it sickens you to imagine it as anything other than what it once was.    your home.    

i’m sorry.    words have you knitting your brows together,     not out of anger,     but instead perplexity.     you should be the only one apologizing.     you put him in danger,    too.     that fire could have easily spread across the yard and consumed his house just as well.     he wouldn’t have died,    because nobody was home that night    (    right?    )      but he would have lost his home,    the same as you had.     “     what?    ”      maybe he’s only apologizing for your loss.     with anyone else,    anyone that didn’t know you back then,    it wouldn’t have seemed genuine,    but you know it would be with travis.    he knew your parents,    your brother,    saw your baby sister;     they all treated him as family,     because you’ve all known each other long enough to be considered as much.      “      you don’t ——       you don’t need to apologize.     it’s...      ”

it’s my fault.    my fault,   my fault,    my fault.     he knows that,    doesn’t he?    you’re the only real suspect,     because price was good at covering his tracks.     because he was good at making you out to be the sole criminal,    when really,     it was his plan to kill the emersons all along.     because to turn you into the killer he wanted,     he had to tarnish your reputation,     and an arrest warrant would do just that.