#suicideroom

would you die tonight for love?

Movie: Suicide Room

wounds open

i fucking love this movie so much

there was a time where i was super obsessed with the movie and i just could not stop looking for stuff about it on the internet

until, through the gaze of tears and death, an angel falls from heaven. she takes him into her arms and shushes his broken pleas with whispered reassurances, soft words that quiet down the screaming of his body. then her fingers, like a sword to the gut and nectar filling his mouth all at once, slip down his throat. it’s invasive and painful and fundamentally wrong all at once—and still, it feels like the right order of things.

with his life quite literally hanging from her fingertips, she makes him purge all the poison he forced into his stomach, covering herself in his vomit, sweat, and tears. she digs a hand into his very soul and stops it from floating into the void, protecting him like a guardian angel until the paramedics show up and take him to the hospital.

there, after a million more invasive procedures that should feel safer but just feel wrong, he sees her again, hesitatingly walking into the white, cold room he was put in. the drugs are out of his system, he’s not actively dying anymore, and still she looks just as divine as before.

the words they share are quiet and somber, the both of them shaken enough by the night before that they can barely look at each others eyes.

but he has to bite down the urge to cling to her once she tries to leave, his desperate being wanting to cling to the single once of kindness he’s experienced in—forever, honestly.

she, inexplicably, wants to stay as well. the poor kid looks so young in the white light of the hospital, eyebags sunk on his porcelain skin, knuckles bruised, cracked lips. a wet puppy, a wilted flower, a gentle soul that less than twelve hours ago was scooped in her trembling hands.

but then a loud, screeching voice comes from the doorway. “how do you dare to do this to our family?!”

she flies out the door, not before scribbling her number down on a hospital napkin and slipping it into his hand.

“i have the feeling you don’t have many people to talk to. call me if you ever… well, need someone.”

a week later, he’s locked in his huge but lonely house, a mansion with freezing walls and not a sound echoing through the halls. he hasn’t gone back to school, his parents never stick around for longer than to yell at him about their last name’s reputation, and the online forum he used to visit is now gone. he finally has no one.

he spends his days staring up at the high ceiling of his room, thinking of the woman with the pretty eyes and heavenly presence. he thinks of her fingers prodding at his soft palate, thinks of it bruising, preserving her touch. he thinks of her brushing back his sweaty bangs, of her murmuring sweet words in his ear, of her covered in him.

he traces the silvery scars on his wrist from old attempts and thinks of doing it again, of putting an end to it all, of hanging himself from the living room chandelier, so he’s the first thing his parents see when they come home from work. if they come home at all.

when he finds himself googling how to make a noose, he picks up his phone and finally diales in her number.

his heart flutters as she picks up immediately, his whole body electric with something he’s never felt before, like there’s more to this world than misery and sorrow.

“everything feels too big,” he whispers into the phone, closing his eyes tightly. “the house is to silent, too empty, and i—my thoughts are too loud.”

there’s a long silence down the line, and just when he thinks he’ll lose his last lifeline, she says: “i was thinking about going for some ice cream. wanna come with?”

so she picks him up in her car, teasing him about being a spoiled rich kid and prodding giggles out of him that soon melt the angst from his body. she jokes and prods and laughs, taking note of the scars under his sleeves and the fresh cuts on his knuckles, bringing him back to reality when his eyes fog over and get lost in the horizon.

he offers to pay for the ice cream but she refuses.

“how often do people actually gift you stuff, millionaire boy?”

the afternoon goes by between soft laughter and mellow silence. they stay in a nearby park until the sun starts hiding behind the hills. by the time the moon is rising in the sky and she’s driving him back to his giant mansion, they both have the same realization—her with horror, him with frighting excitement: their souls feel intertwined.

whatever happened that night, it marked them. her fingers down his throat, his sweat absorbed by her skin. his life in her hands, her leather jacket over his shoulders. glued together by something bigger, woven into each other, their being fundamentally changed by the events of that night.

he’s sure he loves her, she’s his one and only savior, his motivation to wake up every morning and not jump out of his window. for her, she’s terrified of what she’s feeling. of what he’s feeling. she’s older, too old, she should know better. she doesn’t have the excuse of teenage hormones, can’t shield herself behind life-threatening trauma. she’s just—infatuated.

he’s just so sweet, so soft, so broken. when he calls her in the middle of the night and falls asleep in her passenger seat, when he takes her out for lunch to one of those fancy brunch places and ends up getting too drunk of mimosas, when he relapses and she has to patch up his bloody wrists.

she wants him. god fucking damn it, she wants him. she wants to protect him from a world that has abandoned him, keep him safe from people and his parents and himself. but fuck, she can’t have him. and it hurts, when she knows he wants it as well.

it becomes a long game of tug and pull, of want and resistance, of innocence and death. guilt against eagerness, love against propriety. it gets messy, it breaks them down, it puts them back together.

he clings to her to the last minute, and whether she’ll be strong enough to do the right thing and walk away, or cave in and take what’s meant to be hers… well, i guess only time will tell. (which means not even i am sure)

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i wrote this five minutes ago while at my mom’s work, hiding from the kids she nannies and daydreaming about pretty boys. i have to admit i imagined dominik through most of this, but it’d also work perfectly with dean in another universe where monsters aren’t real and mary’s legacy is just a bunch of rich animal hunters, cold-blooded and cruel. sammy doesn’t exists and dean has barely any purpose in life—until that night.