15.

The week passes by in a violent blur, days merging together until you can’t separate one from the next. You don’t know the time, the date, or when Chester’s going to hurt you next. All you know is that it’s got to have been seven days by now. Mind you, you’ve been kidding yourself of that since Brad left so there’s really no telling how much time has actually passed.

It’s morning. You know that because there is a faint trickle of light meandering through a crack in the curtains and there’s the sound of a car down the street being revved up and someone calling out and wishing their neighbour a good day.

You’re lying stomach down on Chester’s bed. Beside you sits a plate of toast that he bought up for you a while ago. It remains cold and untouched. Just the mere thought of eating it causes vomit to rise up from your stomach. You play with the balled up tissue that’s been scrunched up in the palm of your hand for God-knows how long. It’s soaked with tears and blood.

Wish I was too dead to cry.

You stare blankly ahead, eyes watching the curtains as they flap in the breeze. You tried to escape through that window last night but he caught you. He pulled you down despite your screams and flailing arms. He locked you in his closet until you were too tired to swear at him anymore; until you’d stopped slamming your forearms against the door. Then he let you out, flung you to the bed and told you you’d lost the plot. You’ve barely moved since.

Wish I was too dead to care.

You want Brad. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anyone in your entire life. You want to crawl into his arms and tell him to never let you go. You’ll even eat his vegan food and listen to his collection of Pearl Jam records on loop if that’s what it takes. You’ll even tell him about Chester because this time, he’s pushed you too far. You don’t care if Brad knows you had sex with another man. You don’t give a fuck anymore. If he hates you then it’s fine, at least you’ll have escaped Chester’s malicious mind-fucking games.

Wish I’d died instead of lived, a zombie hides my face.

Once he knows you’ll probably kill yourself anyway. And at least this time you’ll be able to make it work. Hell you’ve had enough practise at it. Next time you’ll nail it. Use a sharper knife; take a few more pills; drink some Jack instead of the Vodka. Or maybe you’ll just fling yourself in front of a train or off of a bridge. You don’t really care which; just as long as it does the job.

You’ll tell Brad everything first. You’re not leaving to let Chester go free. No, everyone will know what he’s done to you and why you hate yourself so much that you don’t want to breathe anymore. Everyone will see him for the bastard he really is and all those fans will pummel him to the fucking ground. The media attention will paralyse his smile and the fact that he’s been abusing you will render your band mates speechless and they’ll fucking well hate him the way he’s made you hate yourself.

Never in your life have you felt this way about anyone. You were the guy who used to get restless if he trod on an insect. You were the guy who believed in karma the way some people believe in Jesus. How you’ve changed, you think wryly to yourself as you roll over onto your back, hissing at the pain it causes you now just to fucking move.

Of course, unbeknownst to you, Chester has crept back into the room and is standing over you with a devilish smile smeared across his face.

“Good morning,” He drawls, crawling on top of you.

You sigh as he straddles you, knees resting either side of you. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of cut off shorts and a beaded necklace that you bought him for his birthday earlier on in the year. It glints in the morning light as he sits atop of you and places his hands against your stomach, fingers tracing down the trail of fine hair that starts just beneath your belly button.

That sensation used to send sparks of electricity up and down your spine. Now it just plain fucking hurts. You close your eyes as Chester leans down and trails his lips across your collar bone. His tongue flicks out, leaves a sticky trail as he descends down your torso.

Cold. That’s all you feel.

He carries on kissing you, fingers meandering up and down your sides until the dreaded moment when he works his way back up to your neck. Then his lips press against yours and you kiss him back, strangely scared of what will happen if you don’t submit to his needs. It’s weird, you think as you kiss him back, weird because part of you doesn’t care anymore but a bigger part of you is terrified. Just when you think you’ve seen it all Chester does something that hurts you furthermore. If there’s one thing you’ve learnt this week then it’s that Chester’s love knows no boundaries.

So when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver switchblade you’re not completely shocked.

“Just in case you flip out on me,” He murmurs, “It’s for my own protection really,” He breathes out, still kissing you when he flicks out the blade and trails it along the inside of your arm.

You’re statue like as he kisses you harder, that blade cold as it presses against your skin. You kiss him back, eyes staring vacantly through him. You used to love the way he kissed you.

Then it all crashes apart.

“SHIT!”

Chester suddenly jumps off you, crashing over to the window and pulling back the corner of one of the drapes. Daylight flashes at you through the gap but that doesn’t matter; the unmistakable sound of gravel crunching under car tyres; that matters.

Oh God.

“Fuck! It’s Brad. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” Chester storms back over to you, “He said a week not five days.”

This is it. You sense it. This is fucking…

“Don’t move.”

Deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler. You gulp.

“Do as I say,” Chester hisses, hands grabbing both of your wrists, pressing them together so hard that your bones crunch beneath your skin.

Then the car door opens.

Then the car door slams shut.

“It’s over,” You hiss, trying to tug yourself free from Chester’s clutches, “It’s fucking over,” You spit the words right into his face.

Chester shakes his head and in a split second that blade, all shiny and glinting in the sunlight, he presses it against the flesh of your right arm. You fall back and the blade digs in deeper; Chester’s hand simultaneously clasping against your mouth, blocking out the screams as he drags the knife furiously, zigzagging it into your skin.

It stings and for a moment you’re back in that hotel room, drowning in a bath of your own blood then he drops the knife, takes his hand from your mouth and an almighty scream topples out through your lips.

There’s blood everywhere; all over his chest; all over his hands; pouring rivulets down your arm. You struggle to your feet when Brad rings the doorbell, battling with Chester in a race to get out of the room first. He wins, crashing you to the floor before his hands fumble and turn the key in the lock.

Dizziness envelopes you as the door slams shut behind him. The sound of the key twisting and turning echoes around your head and Chester’s feet thunder down the stairs. You curl up into a ball, cradling your arm against your chest. Through the creaking floor boards you hear the front door opening and closing, Chester’s muffled cries and Brad’s concerned voice. You never thought you’d want to hear that voice so badly.

“Please Brad,” You choke out, “Please…”

Their voices battle for a while, bouncing through the ceiling and losing their meaning as they storm into your ears. Then you hear crashing feet, stomping up the stairs; key turning in the lock; door swinging open.

“Brad…” You gasp but Chester’s voice cuts into your pleas.

“I tried to stop him,” He gasps, “I tried to but he threatened me with the knife. Oh God Brad it was awful and I don’t know what…”

“Just phone an ambulance,” Brad’s voice slices into Chester’s frantic words and he stands there staring at you as Chester’s feet come into view.

“Brad,” You murmur, “Please help me…”

“Oh God,” Brad is on his knees, hands clawing at your arms, “What have you done to yourself Mike? What have you done?”

“He’s… Don’t listen to him… It wasn’t like that. I didn’t…”

“Sssh, it’s okay,” Brad’s crying, fat tears sliding down his cheeks and you can hear Chester in the background, voice frantic.

“No…”

“It’s okay,” Brad tenderly slides an arm around your shaking body, “Chester’s called for an ambulance. We’re gonna get you help Mike, get you some place safe.”

“No! I didn’t do this, it wasn’t me,” You splutter.

Brad’s arms wrap around you as he guides you up onto your feet. His hands feel warm against your bare skin and you cling to his body, gasping for breath.

“Sssh,” He soothes, holding you against him “It’s okay you don’t need to hurt yourself anymore.”

You struggle in his arms. What has Chester said? What has the liar told him? Why doesn’t he GET that you didn’t do this, that it’s not your fault?

“Please,” You cry out, tears toppling down your cheeks.

“Chester?” Brad shouts.

“They’re sending an ambulance.”

“Help me keep him still, he’s going to hurt himself.”

“No,” You hiss, “You’ve got it wrong,” You cry out, “I didn’t do this Brad, I didn’t do it.”

You break down in tears at that point and Brad pulls you up onto the bed. He sits you down, cradling you in his arms. You don’t have the strength to fight anymore, it’s like the tears have taken away your final bursts of energy.

“I didn’t do it,” You hear yourself saying over and over again.

+

Bright strip lights shine down from the ceiling. There’s a strong sterile smell and that distinct emptiness that always seems to go hand in hand with your visits to hospitals. You’ve only just opened your eyes since the medics that turned up at Chester’s house pushed a syringe full of sedatives into the veins in your arm.

There’s no one around that you recognise, just a couple of nurses talking in the corner of the cubicle to a tall gentleman, the Doctor, you presume. He seems to notice your conscious state and walks over to you, hands resting on the metal sides of the bed. It’s only then that you realise you’re in restraints.

“Hello Michael,” His voice is soft as he addresses you, “How are you feeling?”

You shrug. There’s a lump in your throat. You’d only start to cry if you spoke.

“Okay,” He nods, “Do you know why you’re here?”

You shake your head.

“Your friends called for an ambulance. You’d cut your arms. Do you remember doing that Michael?”

“No,” Your voice sounds so far away when you force yourself to speak, “I didn’t do it.”

The Doctor nods, passing off your protests, “You’d lost a lot of blood. We carried out a blood transfusion yesterday and…”

“Yesterday?” You echo weakly.

“Yes, you’ve been in here for three days now,” He pauses, “I spoke to you this morning.”

“I don’t… Are you sure?”

The Doctor smiles, “Yes, and last night also. You’re a little delirious, it’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to keep you here for another night just for observation. The Psyche nurse is coming down in a few minutes to talk to you.”

“Psyche…”

“Yes, we advise all our patients to see them when they’ve gone through something as traumatic as attempted suicide.”

“Suicide?” You stare back, “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain anything to me,” He pauses and glances at his watch and you think bitterly that it’s probably time for him to clock off, go home to his cosy four bedroom house and his wife. You hope he has screaming, bratty children that keep him up all night.

“Is Brad here?” You ask just as he walks away.

He frowns, “The one with the big hair?” He asks, waving his hands around his head.

“Yeah…”

“He’s just talking to the Police.”

“Police?”

“Yes, we had to get them involved.”

“What?”

“Just routine,” He nods, glances at his watch again.

You stare back at him. He smiles almost apologetically and then leaves the room. It’s just and the nurses who are standing in the corner talking about their love lives. Your eyes settle on the restraints. You didn’t think people were allowed to use them anymore. That was obviously a huge case of naivety on your part. They’re big and black, scuffed leather that scratches your skin as you try and wriggle your arms free of their clutches.

Police. Suicide. Brad. Nurses. Strip lights.

A voice suddenly sounds in your head.

“Welcome to hell.”

It sounds just like Chester.

+

TBC…

lyrics belong to stone sour