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Description
Bleeding Me Dry

It wasn’t like the last time she’d seen him, that broken look forever pasted on his face, eyes blank and sightless with the lie that she’s told. He was alive, so very alive, the anger and violence and rage so damned potent that she could barely breathe, it was so thick in the air. Her hands were shaking, her body was shaking; there wasn’t even an ounce of control in her as she threw herself forward into the dream.

“Danny, stop, please!” So shrill, her voice was, panicked and desperate. “Please don’t do this.”

It was all black and gray, full of shadow upon shadow except where the red painted it blood—down his arms, up his arms, his shirt and face. Her sight flickered for a moment, nausea rising in her throat as gray became white and shadow became light and the red seeped across the wall like a stain that would never come off. She closed her eyes against it but there was no way to escape it.

Blood spattered across the walls like it had been flung.

“Oh god, Danny, please, I’m so sorry,” she breathed. The metallic tang filled her nose and same did gag this time, dropping to her knees and retching against the copper-harsh flavor of blood. It was thick, there was so much, and the blade still moved.

Pooled red around the bed, sliding along the linens in macabre handprints—childlike art gone grotesquely wrong.

He was so silent as he went about it. Every strike of the blade against his arm was screaming loud in her ears as Sam staggered to her feet to try and stop him. His wrists were slick, his hands cold, and she pressed her cheek to his. “Danny, Jesus, stop or you’re going to die.”

There wasn’t answer, or at least not the one she wanted. Repentance for the act, misery and pain because of the hundreds of slashing, hacking wounds down his arms. He was so covered in blood it was miracle that he was still standing, and Sam tried to cling to him even as the knife came down again.

“Stop!” she cried again. Blade hit flesh and she almost fell to her knees.

So easy to see glistening white bone beneath all of it, he’d cut so hard, so violently; sawed away like he never felt the pain.

She didn’t try and stop the tears, didn’t flinch at the warmth of the blood on her face when she tried to cover it with her hands. “Danny, please. I’m begging you. Please stop cutting yourself.”

Her world paused, the dream halted in midsequence, and Sam could only feel the warm blood, the cold in her stomach, the empty ache in her chest.

His voice broke the silence like shattering glass. “But Sam, I’m not the one cutting me.”

Her eyes flew open and she looked down. Her hands were coated in the thick red blood, the knife clenched within both of them as she forced it into him.

It fell with a clatter as she stumbled back, a scream rising in her throat. She never even tried to stop it as she fell headfirst into the waking world, her hands ice cold and her screams echoing through the house, just as they had done every night since Danny had been found three months before.

Description
Bleeding Me Dry

It wasn’t like the last time she’d seen him, that broken look forever pasted on his face, eyes blank and sightless with the lie that she’s told. He was alive, so very alive, the anger and violence and rage so damned potent that she could barely breathe, it was so thick in the air. Her hands were shaking, her body was shaking; there wasn’t even an ounce of control in her as she threw herself forward into the dream.

“Danny, stop, please!” So shrill, her voice was, panicked and desperate. “Please don’t do this.”

It was all black and gray, full of shadow upon shadow except where the red painted it blood—down his arms, up his arms, his shirt and face. Her sight flickered for a moment, nausea rising in her throat as gray became white and shadow became light and the red seeped across the wall like a stain that would never come off. She closed her eyes against it but there was no way to escape it.

Blood spattered across the walls like it had been flung.

“Oh god, Danny, please, I’m so sorry,” she breathed. The metallic tang filled her nose and same did gag this time, dropping to her knees and retching against the copper-harsh flavor of blood. It was thick, there was so much, and the blade still moved.

Pooled red around the bed, sliding along the linens in macabre handprints—childlike art gone grotesquely wrong.

He was so silent as he went about it. Every strike of the blade against his arm was screaming loud in her ears as Sam staggered to her feet to try and stop him. His wrists were slick, his hands cold, and she pressed her cheek to his. “Danny, Jesus, stop or you’re going to die.”

There wasn’t answer, or at least not the one she wanted. Repentance for the act, misery and pain because of the hundreds of slashing, hacking wounds down his arms. He was so covered in blood it was miracle that he was still standing, and Sam tried to cling to him even as the knife came down again.

“Stop!” she cried again. Blade hit flesh and she almost fell to her knees.

So easy to see glistening white bone beneath all of it, he’d cut so hard, so violently; sawed away like he never felt the pain.

She didn’t try and stop the tears, didn’t flinch at the warmth of the blood on her face when she tried to cover it with her hands. “Danny, please. I’m begging you. Please stop cutting yourself.”

Her world paused, the dream halted in midsequence, and Sam could only feel the warm blood, the cold in her stomach, the empty ache in her chest.

His voice broke the silence like shattering glass. “But Sam, I’m not the one cutting me.”

Her eyes flew open and she looked down. Her hands were coated in the thick red blood, the knife clenched within both of them as she forced it into him.

It fell with a clatter as she stumbled back, a scream rising in her throat. She never even tried to stop it as she fell headfirst into the waking world, her hands ice cold and her screams echoing through the house, just as they had done every night since Danny had been found three months before.