FicWad

It breaks my heart to see the blood, from someone I thought I could keep safe, just scattered all over the walls. Of course that's a complete exaggeration, but there wasn't a day that went by where I didn't smell my precious Ryan's blood. There wasn't a day that went by where I didn't see the crimson stains at least somewhere in the house. Sometimes I see his scars scattered across his arms and I ask myself: What am I doing wrong? I know he would reply: It's not you, it's me, but when did that ever make sense? When those nights came where Ryan and I loved each other, I know he didn't see the pain behind my eyes. His beautiful body just covered in rough marks. In those nights, there wasn't a single minute that passed where I didn't think about how sensitive, depressed, and emotional he really was. When ever he got out of the house I checked the bedroom for anything bigger than a pocket knife, let alone, a shot gun. I swear, if I ever see my baby, or hear about my love, raising that gun to his precious head, I don't know what I would do. I remember the first time I had known about his repeated cutting, I tried to get him to stop. I was the one that failed, not him. It's just; I didn't want him to die. I didn't want him to just keep on thinking that no one loves him, that no one cares, that he's alone, because right now, I am his everything, and sometimes he just can't see it. The first few nights I had known, I would hold him close and whisper in his ear, "Ryan I love you so much, don't make me see you like this." Sometimes I say this only to try to explain the fact of why I cried in the middle of the night all because I had nightmares of him just disappearing from me. After a while, I thought he would just catch on, but he didn't. When he walked into the bathroom I used to sit by the door, hearing him whine. I would hear his body sift uncomfortably, more or less, on the linoleum floor. I would just sit there and listen to him spill his blood while I sat and cried solemn tears. You knew he was done making those heart breaking slits when he turned on the water from the sink to wash his blood down the drain. I don't understand why he had to break my heart like this. I mean… what if I just woke up in the middle of the night to find the left side of the bed empty, and I run into the bathroom to find his body just laying there; the stench of blood filling the air, that pool of crimson practically lining the edges of his arms? These were the kind of thoughts I would have, listening to him cut away. Most of the time I want to bust down that door and tell Ryan to stop, but I don't. I… just… don't. But every time I didn't do anything, I would regret it, because the more I drag it out, the more Ryan dies. There's absolutely no exaggeration there. Everyday I see his scars grow longer and thicker. It was as if cutting was some sort of addictive drug to him, but I knew I had to stop it sooner or later.

You think they're fine at first,

But you will never know until it's too late.

I wasn't about to take that risk anymore.