Messy

Jared

T/W: Death, suicide threat, panic attack (I'm sorry)

It (I'm calling Mark "it" because it doesn't deserve to be humanized) is still grinning like a madman. It's a little freaky.

"I don't think it would take much for me to make you change your mind." It says. It stands up. Makes its way around the table to Evan. But not to Evan.

To me.

It wraps an arm around my neck and reveals a pocket knife that looks really sharp. It holds it close to my neck.

I sort of panic. I don't know how to get out of a situation like this.

"It would be a shame if your pretty little boyfriend died." It says. There's a creepy tone to its voice. Almost as if it has done this before.

I don't know what to do. I'm scared to move, scared to hold still. Scared to breathe and scared to hold my breath.

Things that happen next move in slow motion.

Evan takes a swing at Mark. His fist connects with skin. The knife clatters to the floor, but it's only there for a second, because Evan gets a hold of it. He's holding it out like he's going to stab Mark, but then something changes.

He presses the knife to his wrist.

"Let him go." Evan threatens. "Do you really want a suicide on your hands?"

Mark's grip loosens.

"That's what I thought." Evan's voice is shaky.

Mark still doesn't let go of me. The threat isn't enough.

So Evan does what I thought he was going to do all along. Something I didn't think he would be capable of.

The knife sinks into Mark's neck. It stumbles backwards, releasing me. It hits the ground with a disgusting squish-thump-thing. I scramble to the wall farthest away from the scuffle. Evan drops the knife, not believing what he's done.

My family, Evan's family. They all watch with both amazement and horror.

And then things erupt into madness.

"Oh. My. Gosh. I JUST KILLED SOMEONE!" Evan starts to go crazy. He can't handle this situation. His breathing is heavy and his whole body is shaking. He can't stand up without the support of the chair in front of him.

"We need to call the police." Mom says. "It's easier to call in and explain what happened, don't you think?"

It's clear that we all have no idea what to do. THIS IS NOT A NORMAL OCCURRENCE.

I'm totally out of it. I can't think straight (not that I ever have... okay not the time for gay jokes). The world is out of tune.

Evan just killed someone.

Even that thought doesn't really register.

The only thing that comes to my mind clearly is that we can't kill Connor. Or anyone. Neither of us can do it.

I feel like I'm underwater.

It takes a long time for me to process the fact that Evan is unconscious on the floor.

"What happened?" I ask in a voice I can barely hear. Still, someone hears me. Mark's wife.

"He just passed out. He should be okay. Besides, we have a doctor here." She gestures to Heidi, wearing a smile for 0.5 seconds. Then a serious look covers her face again.

"I need to take my children out of the room. I don't want them here right now. 'I'll be back in a moment."

I nod, barely registering what she said. I'm panicked. Panicked for what's going to happen to Evan. Panicked because I could have died. Panicked because the world is falling apart right before my eyes and I can do nothing to stop it.

I take a step, and then another, and then another, focusing on staying upright. I kneel down next to Evan when I reach him. I hold his hand.

"I'm sorry." I whisper.

I said I would keep him safe. I said everything would be fine. I didn't think it would be any worse than last time. And here we are. He's not safe, nothing is fine, and it's so much worse than last time.

"I'm sorry." I whisper again. "I'm sorry I lied."

The tears that should have been falling long ago? They come. I can't see through my tears, especially with how fogged-up my glasses are.

My glasses. I peel them off and wipe my eyes. I clean the lenses. They still seem dirty. I can't get them clean enough for myself. Even though I know there's nothing left to clean, I continue to try to clean them with the bottom of my shirt. I reach to scratch the back of my neck, not sure what I'm supposed to do.

I pull my hand back.

Blood. Blood all over my hands. The color isn't the same as when you get a paper cut. It's an ugly, almost-black shade of red.

I wipe my hand on my pants, then with the bottom of my shirt. But it can't get clean enough. I can see blood, even in the places where I can no longer feel it. I let out a frustrated yell and throw something, the closest thing I can find, at the wall.

That thing happens to be my glasses. I hear them shatter. I don't care.

I take a long, slow breath. I can't stop mentally freaking out.

I curl up into a ball, my knees pressed against my chest and my hands over my ears. Maybe if I can stop hearing and seeing and feeling everything, it will go back to normal. I yell, trying to make my voice the only thing I can hear.

Someone touches my shoulder. I jump, turn around, draw back to hit them.

Michael.

"Can't get clean enough." I mumble. I put my hands back over my ears.

I realize how crazy I must look.

I realize I don't care.

Looks like I've officially gone insane.

Took me long enough.