FicWad

STEFAN

I had found a shard of glass in the pocket of one of Ashley's jumpers. It was
stained a rather familiar shade of red. I knew there was only one possible
explanation.

When I called him up to confront him about it, he looked quite confused. But he
knew what he had been doing. "Working on an art project mate?" I asked.
"Sure am. I was making a stained glass window. That's red paint." I couldn't
exactly identify a form of lying in his voice, but his excuse wasn't going to
stop me. "Show me your arms." I asked. "No." "Dammit! Show me your fucking arms,
Ashley!" "No!" I hadn't a choice. I tackled him as hard as I could. It was a
brutal battle. Ashley was a strong guy, much more than I. But I somehow managed
to hold him down after a minute. Restraining him wasn't easy at all. It was
difficult to hold down a twenty two year old while trying to pull his sleeves
down. As soon as I started getting tired, he used it to his advantage. He rolled
me over, pinning me down with ease. But at the same time, I got my hands in a
position where I could use his own strength to yank his sleeves up. The result
mortified me. He was crying now, tears dropping on me. His arms were bloodied
everywhere. Large, deep cuts had basically torn open his arms. He had destroyed
his own muscle tissue, and the the exposed flesh was completely ripped, tendons
torn. His heavy breathing infused with sticky sweat and transparent faucet
tears. Paralyzed, he rolled off me and tried for the door. I held him back,
pulling and gripping his shirt whilst slowly rising to my feet, I grabbed his
waist and pulled him away from the door. Alarmingly, he allowed me.


ASHLEY

I reached for the doorknob one last time. And failed. I was exhausted to resist
Stefan wrestling me back to the bedroom. I never wanted him to find out. "How
could you do this, Ashley? How?!" He was as upset as I. "I hurt her! I fucking
caused her death!" But I knew it was a lie. Deep down, I knew it was Stefan, not
me. But I could never bring myself to harm Stefan. I couldn't lose anyone else.
Instead, I threw my anger at myself, and thus, cutting. I had to blame someone.
I wanted to disappear, to just reverse everything.


STEFAN

Ashley had just gotten back from the therapist's office. He looked better, but
he still possessed the same look of depression he had earlier. His leather
jacket was off, and white gauze and bandages had been wrapped tightly around his
arms, multiple times. He didn't even look at me. Which made me feel a thousand
times worse. Seeing the love of my life stuck in a canyon of sadness and pain.
All because of me. Me. I retrospected everything that had happened. Good
childhood memories. Growing up. Writing parodies. Recording them. Radio
interviews. Tours. Screaming fans. Dinner. The dream. Hangover. Breakfest.
Bathroom. Corner. Crying. Ashley. Kissing. Ashley. Dru. Jemma's death. Ashley's
depression. The red stained glass. The terrible gashes on his arms. And now. I
sighed. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? Why did I force all this uneccessary
pain on him?