Stay With Me

26

The drive was spent with his mother and brother trying their hardest to talk to him, trying to pry it out of him why he had come home so much more depressed than before after all the letters he had written them about finally being happy. His brother at one point or another seemed to take the hint that Dead really didn't want to talk about it, but his mother continued to push ever harder.

"You'll feel better if you talk, sweetheart," she continued to press.

Dead shook his head as he continued to look out the window. "Nej."

Her brow furrowed as she continued to push him. "Pelle, I would like to know what is bothering you so much. You cannot keep things inside."

Choosing to ignore her for the moment, Dead tried to steady his frantically racing mind. There wasn't a single thought in his mind that didn't revolve around her, around them. She had been his first for so many things in his life, the first person to truly make him feel alive once again. It was almost funny how the one who had given him a reason to live was now the reason why he wanted to die once again.

No. It's not her fault. Euronymous must have turned her against me!

How stupid are you? You heard them yourself! She's planning on marrying him!

The internal argument continued to rage as they drew closer to what used to be his home. He didn't want to be here, not really. If anything, he wanted to just start walking into the forest, not knowing where he was going and simply lose himself in the wilderness. It wouldn't be that hard to do. With any luck he would die from hypothermia before he had the chance to do anything himself. His fingers played with the knife in his pocket, the blade cutting his finger the moment he ran it across.

Dead almost smiled at the familiar sensation, his eyes closing as he reveled in the pain. His heart rate began to pick up as he continued cutting into his fingers, the blood slowly seeping into the pocket of his jacket. Taking a careful glance from under his hair to make sure his mother and Anders weren't watching, he slipped the knife into his other hand before dragging it down his wrist to the palm of his hand.

His head fell back as the blood pooled in his hand. The throbbing pain from the wound was enough to disorient him. Hazy, confused and weak his vision went blurry as tears once again filled his eyes. For a moment he focused on the pain, honing in on every sensation. Where it came from, how badly it hurt and how badly he wanted it to continue.

It was difficult to focus between the moments of pain and the voices telling him to stop what he was doing, but he pressed onward. For now the pain was manageable. Annoying, but manageable. As he dug the blade deeper inside his skin, careful not to do any real damage to himself, he savored each moment of agonizing pain as he tried to shut out all thoughts of her. People could keep their drugs and alcohol, but this, this feeling here, this was his high; his release.

All too soon the car stopped in front of the house he had once called home. If he was quick enough he might be able to sneak back to his room and clean off the blood before anyone noticed. There were probably still some bandages up in the bathroom, Anders had told him that no one had touched his room since he left except to dust things off every month or so. If that was the case then he would be fine.

You're playing a dangerous game.

No. Not a game anymore.

Fuck it. I don't care who sees me like this. I don't care anymore. I never should have from the beginning.

Pulling himself together, he followed his mother and brother out of the car and into the house. It had changed since he had last been home. The once carpeted floor had been updated to a dark wooden floor with smaller rugs in the living room and dining room areas, it was a nice change that finally matched, what Dead always called, the ugly orange walls. Thankfully when they redid the floor they darkened up the orange, making it a bit more tolerable.

Still ugly as fuck.

"Pelle," called his mother. "Why don't you go upstairs and get settled in while I finish up dinner. Your father should be home in a little while and then we can all talk. Okay?"

Dead nodded, remaining silent, afraid if he were to even try and talk he would break down once again and tell them everything that had happened. Without giving either of them a chance to talk to him anymore, Dead hurried up the stairs to his old bedroom. Opening the door he took in the small room. Anders had been right, nothing had been moved or changed except for the clean sheets on the bed and the now open window. All his comics were still on their shelves along with the dozens of cassette tapes next to the old radio he had found at the pawn shop.

It was a small comfort to be back, a flash of happiness crossed his mind but was gone as quickly as it had come. This was going to be their room. The room he had wanted her to share with him after they had gotten married and he took her away with him. He didn't want to be bothered with Mayhem anymore. Didn't want to deal with Euronymous every day and worrying when the next time they were going to eat would be. He would have happily given it all up to go to school so he could get a decent job and give her the life she deserved.

Maybe he will give it to her now...

Crossing the floor to the bathroom, Dead began searching the drawers for the bandages he had left behind. The blood had begun to drip down onto the floor beneath him, the stinging sensation in his arm increasing each time his jacket rubbed against the open wound. For a brief moment, Dead debated on cutting himself further. He had the time to do it, but at this rate he would have to worry about cleaning the mess afterwards.

Not unless I do it in the shower tonight.

Yes. That's exactly what he would do. If she no longer cared about him or his feelings, then why should he care if he hurt himself or not? It was his body, his choice. If there was one thing he was sure he could control it was his own damned body! No one was going to tell him what he could or couldn't do anymore. If he wanted to feel pain, he would feel it. The bitterness he felt towards the world was the only constant thing that he knew would never betray him.

They're all the same in the end. No one ever really cares about anyone else, it's all survival of the fittest. In the end, we all end up dead and alone with no one left to remember our names. Fuck the fame.

Dragging the blade across his arm once again, Dead let out a groan as the blood dripped down onto the floor.

"I'm done," he growled, letting the blade fall from his hands as he rested his head against the wooden wall, sobbing violently as he wept for the heart that had once again been ripped from his chest, and for the love he thought he knew...