Wondering Why ~ [ INCOMPLETE ]

04 - Balcony

(Another background chapter, but important!) TW: Suicide, blood, mention of Self Harm.

~ 2012 - twelve years ago, September ~

~ Waylon, 19 years old ~

"I swear to god, Waylon, if you leave me , I'm going to kill myself!!" Her voice screeched from the passenger seat of my truck, she was sobbing. We just graduated highschool. Stacy, who I've been dating for nine years, was not who she used to be.

She used to be such a kind soul. A beautiful girl with a heart of gold. Until her father died about a year ago. Since then she's traded for drugs and deteriorated her physical and mental health. She's become toxic, using me for my money so she can continue with feeding her addiction.

"Stacy, I'm not leaving you. I'm going to college. UT isn't that far from here.. we can still see eachother." I drive up to  Stacy's apartment building and park. I lean across the center console and plant a soft kiss on her cheek, wiping her tears and cupping her cheek. "You go on Inside. I'll be back in a few hours to get my stuff and say goodbye.."

She just gets out of the truck and slams the door, running inside. I huff shakily and leave for work, shaking my head as I let my heart shake my shoulders from the inside.

~ Three hours later ~

I arrive at Stacy's house after work, seeing all the lights off in the house. I huff shakily and shut off my truck, heading up the front steps. I knock, nobody comes. I Knock once more and am still answered with silence.

I reach to get the spare key from under the mat and twist the door handle, gently pushing it agape. "Stacy?" I reach my other hand through the opening and flick on a light switch. I am met with an unpleasant sight.

Blood droplets lead a trail from the kitchen to the front door, a smudge of blood on the handle where she had locked the door. "STACY-"

I take Off up the steps, nearly slipping on the blood trail that leads up to her room. Her door is closed, and I shove into it when I try and turn the handle. "Stacy open the door! Stacy please!" Rattling the door handle, it won't budge. I take a step back and slam my foot against the door right under the handle, and it rips open. Blood is smudged on the white walls, leading to the balcony doors, one propped open with blood dripping from the handle. A bloody kitchen knife on the ground. "Stacy-"

I step out onto the balcony, she's sat in a rocking chair with limp limbs and pale skin. Still breathing, but barely. "Stacy— holy shit what happened?" I rush to her, cupping her cheeks in my hands. She's only in shorts and a tank top. Her hair still wet from a shower, fresh cuts lining her thighs, and arms. Her tanktop stained around her stomach, providing evidence that leads me to assume there are more cuts on her stomach.

She just glared at me, icy and cold eyes. And grinned. "I told you. Go fuck yourself, Waylon... nobody will ever love you for you. Remember that." Her works spat out like daggers, wheezing tiredly. She was losing blood, and fast.

"You used to love me—"

"—not anymore."

"What happened? Why don't you?"

"My father was right." Her voice was getting weaker, croaking from her throat.

"About what-?" She went silent, just staring at me, her eyes going dull. "About—Stacy come on.."

I fumble to grab my phone, slipping in my bloody hands. I quickly dial 9-1-1, and am immediately put on the line.

~ The Next Day ~

I am leaned against the tailgate of my truck, my older sister sitting on the tailgate behind me, playing with my hair. I have a cigarette rested between my lips, the smoke flowing from my nostrils. Over just the last two months, Stacy had said and done so many things to me, and I had never told Dakota about them.

When I'd told her, I realized how toxic Stacy had really been. I was a people pleaser, I was easy to manipulate, but after that experience, I learned how you can't let other people control your life. Stacy had been doing that, guilt tripping me into giving her money for her addictions, or being her fake alibi to get her out of trouble. Little did I know that she had been mentally abusing me with most things. By the time I realized this, it was too late. I fell into an endless spiral downwards, and now I have depression and PTSD.

I remind myself on a daily that I have no reason to have Post Traumatic Stress or Depression from that situation, because other people have had, and have it worse. But I still can't bring myself to love again. I've never let anyone but my family touch me since then. Even so, I rarely let them touch me at all. Any time I start to develop feelings for someone else, I have to remind myself what happened last time.

My sister has tried so many times to convince me to get a therapist, but again, others have it worse than I do. I don't have PTSD. I don't have depression. I am Just. Being. Dramatic.

But oh, how I crave a soft, loving touch sometimes.

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