He Bled Sentences
Reed shivers on the hardwood floor, picking scabs from the knuckles of his trembling hands. He looks up to stare at me through wide, accusing eyes - pupils pinpoints against midnight skies. When he opens his mouth, blood slithers free in the form of words that leave me shaking.
"How could you?" he wants to know. "How could you?"
The sticky heat of his words pool around my bare feet and I flex my toes, pressing down so the blood squelches between them. "I didn't mean to," I tell him helplessly and he shuts his mouth, wiping up his words on the back of his hand. They streak his chin that trembles with the effort to hold back screams or sobs – I'm not sure which.
Blush-colored bubbles burst from his cracked lips as he laughs humorless laughter. "Didn't mean to? Jesus, Joel! Christ!" His arms flail next to him and I back up, away from those fists that flew so fast just minutes before as the bloodied words begin to gush fast and free. His shirt is soaked with sticky red and he peels it off him, revealing a smooth, pale chest that brags of how fragile he is.
"Did I break you?" I worriedly wonder. He snapped tonight. Was I the one to snap him? Yes. Probably.
He looks at me through wide, confused eyes now and stands up shakily, swaying against the wall and smearing it with red. "Fuck you, Joel." And his words have never been so heartfelt because they've never been dripping with the liquid his heart provided. "Fuck you." Verbs, pronouns. Vowels and consonants. They stain his teeth, mimicking vampires' canines.
He walks past me, leaving behind red rivers, tributaries drowning my feet and filling the cracks in the floor.
"I'm sorry!" I call after him, but he doesn't turn or slow or answer so I follow him to our bedroom where he's screaming silently into his pillow. His swear words and turn his white pillow sodden and then stain our sheets when they've run out of places to go as if we've had a virgin in our bed tonight. I lie beside him and put a hand on his bare shoulder blade, flinching at the sharpness. "I'm sorry, Reed."
His whole body shakes and shudders as he sucks in ragged breaths of air, choking and spluttering on the words he inhales instead of says. "How could you?" I think I hear him repeat and I can only shrug and press harder on his shoulder blade, hoping he'll pierce me to pay me back for the pain I've caused him.
There are already bruises forming along my jaw line to line up with the shapes of his raw knuckles, but it's not enough and I know that. He wants an answer but I have none to give him. How, how, how could I do such a thing?
"It's not that I don't love you," I whisper, trying to find the words he wants and needs to hear. "You know that I love you." Silence except for sobbing and sputtering around bloodied saliva. "I just fucked up. I was drunk and he meant nothing to me. You mean everything to me. I'm sorry. I love you…" I babble brokenly, rubbing circles against his fevered skin.
He rolls over suddenly, his face blotchy and red and streaked with his murmured words, war paint across the ridges of his cheekbones and a thick lush crimson around his swollen lips. I cup his face in my hands, rosewater waterfalls streaming over the backs of my fingers and dribbling into the small space between us.
"I love you," I repeat, hoping these words will be enough to soak up his. "I love you."
He mumbles something I can't hear or read and then sighs, letting forth another surge of blood. "I know." It's a tiny whisper that scrapes through his teeth and swirls down my wrist. "I know you do."
His lips push against mine, soaking wet. I feel the gash I left inside him – the wound that bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. His mouth opens against mine and words flood into my mouth, copper-sweet and heady as they churn over my taste buds and worm down my throat to land in my stomach that's as upset as the rest of me.
They fill my belly with their heat as his body pushes against mine like his fists did not that long ago. I wish I had something to give him back to fill the hole and replace the blood he's lost. We're close enough right now that I know he can hear without me even saying it that I'm sorry I'm sorry and I'll never do it again, and I hope those unspoken words are enough because I don't know what else to give.
Suddenly while his words are in me, I'm in him, and the heat encompasses us. The scabs of his hands are rough on my back and his fingernails press and tear till I bleed vowels to join his own.
"How could I?" I ask him and he shakes his head, staring up at me through wide, sad eyes. "How could I?"
He pulls me down to him so our mouths are poised beside each other's ears and he murmurs that it's okay while I say sorry again and again and again.
Later on we lie side by side in the wet sheets, staring at the darkness of the ceiling and swallowing often to prevent choking on our copious words. I turn my head to stare at him through widened eyes.
"Did I break you?" I worry again, reaching out to touch his cheek.
"No" dribbles from his lips and settles on the pillow beneath and between us. "No. You fucked up, but no." He props his head in his scabbed hands and looks at me. "And I must be stupid because I know you're sorry and I forgive you." His head comes down to lie on my chest and before he drifts into sleep he bleeds one more sentence. "I love you too."
The end...or something.
Corny bullshit right there. I wanted to write a story and SerialXLain persuaded me to do it. She's under the conviction that this was written for her birthday, but she's quite delusional. (Kidding.) This was basically rambling I know, but I never write stories so I didn't know what to do… And I probably will never write one again after this mess. :)