It feels like there are pulses of anger streaming through his veins and they clash harshly against his consciousness, drilling empty toxins into his mind. His fist is clenched with burning heat layering over his knuckles thatâd just come into contact into her slim frame, bruising her with patches of his own rotting conscience.
He remembers the times when heâd pressed kisses to her skin and whispered quiet promises of eternity.
Broken. Everything is so fucking broken.
He doesnât remember how it all began, and heâd repeatedly consoled her with apologies and loving words because he knows all too sure heâll love her forever.
The first time meant the existence of a second, and a third and time ticked on only for Twelve to watch her crumble into shattered pieces before him.
He wants to assure her, and assure himself, that this isnât him. He doesnât intend to paint her face with twisted pain and her lips with bleeding red.
He really fucking doesnât.
Itâs all too late and he feels his palm searing with fire and his eyes rake over her swollen cheek. Thereâs still heavy pounds of anger thatâs choking his airways, and every harsh contact against her skin feels like a pulse of oxygen to his lungs.
Itâs sickâ but heâs sick, too.
He snaps back when his fingers are wrapped around the cold surface of the gun, slim digits snaking around the trigger. The click of the safety echoes and every second is tightening an invisible grip around his heart and he thinks that everything is just so fucking wrong.
The muzzle presses tight against her temple and he can almost feel the warmth radiating to his trembling fingertips.
Thereâs a silent countdown that flashes his vision, but also the quiet rings of her laughter, their laughter.
Itâs a split instant that he catches himself falling and loosens his grasp around the handgun, letting it crash against the stained tiles. He drops to his knees and everything disintegrates into weights that wrenches his heart. A muffled growl slips from his lips and his palms are hiding the tears that were ripped from his soul and had escaped at his weakest.
A streak of light leaks in from the slit of the blinds.