Stephie. Rated R for self harm.

[slinkster-ghoul.livejournal.com]

Everything was falling apart, collapsing down around her with a roar that deafened everything else. How could this be happening? How could she have messed up so badly as to loose everyone?

The house had never been this silent before. Ry was gone. He'd left, moved out, carefully packed away his room and slipped out of her life like he'd never really been there in the first place. Deirdre was in Cape Town, and Slink didn't blame her. She wished she was on the other side of the world from all this shit, too. Pierre was at the hospital, watching Renee breathe. And Jude... she didn't know where Jude was. Avoiding her. All of them. Renee could be dying and Jude could be dead and Ry was gone and no one was there, and she needed- gods, she needed someone to cling to but they'd all left her alone.


Everyone was angry, or scared or panicking or suffering in silence, and they all had their reasons. Suicide. Heartbreak. Violence. Real reasons. Legitimate reasons. All she had was one night she couldn't remember and a family she'd royally screwed over. And she couldn't keep it together, couldn't hold any of them together and couldn't help herself, either. How? How are you supposed to hold yourself together when all you are is a mass of disgusting emotions that change so easily from fear to anger to hate. That's what she was, married to hate and bearing its children, and vicious hot tears were streaming down her face.

She stood at the doorway, clutching the doorframe for long, long moments after Ry had left, feeling her throat close up and her eyes start to pour and her heart dump its contents into her stomach. The first sob nearly choked her, and she wrapped her hands around her throat to stop the rest, and failed. She let out a defeated scream of fury and spun round, slamming both fists into the wall beside the door, denting the wall and sending a shock of pain through her arms. Her hands groped in her pockets for the key, and, trembling, she managed to lock the door. Her whole being was shaking with it, with the unfathomable mix of anger and pain and I-fucked-up-so-bad, and she could barely see through her sore and bleary eyes. She ran, taking the stairs two or three at a time and not caring when she tripped, even though her ankle cried out for attention.

Her door slammed shut behind her and she fell hard to her knees before her desk, pulling out an entire draw and emptying its contents on the floor in front of her. Still shaking, she grabbed a candle and thumped it down onto her desk, searching frantically for her lighter with her other hand. Her fingers closed around it and she lit the candle, watching with a jaw clenched so tight her face and teeth ached.

The sobs were thick and fast now, and her mind was screaming hate at herself. She was going to die- the pain kept building up a force on impossible pressure that she couldn't quell, and it was going to drive her insane. There was no one here but herself, no one to lean on and no one to rescue her and no one to cry with and no one to help. And no one else seemed as fucked up as her and everyone had reasons and she couldn't explain, not even to herself, why she couldn't cope.

Why she couldn't just handle her emotions like everyone else.

She yanked back the sleeve of her shirt and held her arm over the candle, feeling the heat immediately- within two seconds she was screaming- let it out let it out let it out. Her other hand gripped the desk till her nails broke and she screamed to high heaven till she couldn't do it anymore- jerked her arm away and swayed back on her heels, cradling it and crying weakly.

She thought of the boy with wings and cried for lost miracles.

Everything she'd felt devouring her from the inside had escape with her scream- with the searing pain in her left arm. Still trembling, she sat there numb, staring at the burn. Along the inside of her forearm were smaller, pink plasticy scars, but this new on overshadowed them all. She needed... water. Bathroom. Something. And sleep, blissfull, unconscious, sleep. Her head felt light, but she managed to pull herself off the floor and onto her feet. She snuffed the fat candle with the palm of her right hand and winced, which seemed ridiculous, then stumbled to the bathroom to run cold water over her arm till she was too drained to stand anymore.

But she didn't have to think about anything. Just this act. Simple. Ritualistic. Emotionless.

She barely made it to her bed, and didn't have the energy to pull the covers over her. There she lay, legs curled out and one arm outstreched, staring at the wall in front of her face till her brain gave out too, and she fell hard into sleep.