note: i had already put trigger warnings on this but some people are all dumb and they don't read it and when I put triggering shit on any of my stories ppl come at me & messaging me like that chapter made me uncomfortable and like im sorry but like read! ive put warnings and this book is mature so like caution ok, fuck. on with it.
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『 CHAPTER viii: MODERN VAN GOGH. 』
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JUNE SWAN FELT LIKE SHE WAS LOSING her damn mind. Her room smelled of paint, various cans and paint brushes scattered her bedroom floor as the open window blew in the spring time smell from outside, which, for Forks, was nothing but mist from the morning rain. Patrick Verona was asleep on her bed, already accustomed to his new home. June didn't want to even look her dad and sister in the eye when she got home after visiting the Reservation. June knew her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, they'd hound her with questions she didn't have the strength to answer. June only kept hearing her grandmother's words over and over, sooner than I thought, and the taunting voice in June's head only seemed to get louder and cackle in her ear, June's going soon. June's going soon. June's going— She was feeling particularly tortured and solemn and the music that blared through her vinyl player wasn't the usual soft coffee house tunes but bordering nirvana level, maybe even the hollies and the moody blues came out at times and had June ripping up new canvases and tossing paint on them.
Charlie had let her and Bella stay home from school, her face convincing him she did have a flu; but Bella and she would be leaving for La Push in a bit with their friends. June knew she had to be okay by then.
But she wasn't okay now. June screamed in her pillow, crying, crying and crying and repeating when one particular song lyric struck a cord in her. Now you know that you are real ... Patrick Verona whined when June got up and tossed more paint on the painting of the forest with glowing eyes staring at her through each crack in the brush. She watched as the paint, red as the eyes she colored, stained her hands. June stared at it, crying, knowing that she'd see this picture soon. When she was dead, with her heart in her hands, blood staining the olive tones of her skin. ... I'm going out of my mind with these nightmares I see every time I close my eyes, June told herself as Patrick Verona jumped from her bed and went over to where she was huddled in the corner of her room. He licked her tear stained cheeks, June sniffles and holds her dog close. My room smells like paint from the amount of drawings I've been doing, and my bruise is gone ... no thanks to the pills grandma gave me.
