----- act two, DANGEROUS TRUTHS Chapter 15. The Fault Is Mine
A HOSPITAL MASSACHUSETTS, U.S.A 6:45 P.M.
⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ THE STORY FROM HERE ON WILL BE UPSETTING AND SIGHTLY UNSETTLING. IT WILL GO INTO DETAIL ABOUT SENSITIVE TOPICS AND POTENTIAL TRIGGERS LIE AHEAD. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
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TRAGEDY SEEMED TO HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE TO BOTH THE MIKAELSON AND THROMBEY FAMILIES.
It had been a very rough 9 hours since it had been revealed that Richard and Linda's son was behind the madness.
Well, he assumed it had been about 9 hours. He didn't know what exactly what time it was.
Most of his family had since left, dealing with legal issues and the like.
But Jacob had refused to leave, even when day faded into night. He had been silent since Astrid had been taken to the hospital, not uttering a single word.
His family was worried to say the least, even Meg, who hated her cousin with a passion.
Not once had Jacob touched the silver device he loved so dearly that lay heavily in his pocket, rather choosing to stare off into nothing, locked in his own head.
His body felt like it weighed a ton, like the weight of the world was pressed on his shoulders.
It seemed like he wasn't a sixteen-year-old boy with no care in the world anymore, but rather a weary and grief stricken old man who had seen one too many losing battles.
Donna and Walt had been very reluctant to leave their suffering son alone with strangers, but Jacob simply told them he wanted to be left alone. He didn't go into detail, nor speak any more afterwards.
No one else had since acknowledged the depressed-looking boy who was sitting against the exterior stone wall of the hospital.
He hadn't moved once in three hours.
Three hours since it was announced that the girl he loved wouldn't make it.
Three hours since it was announced she wouldn't live to see daylight tomorrow.
Two hours left until he had to say his last goodbye to the girl he loved more than anyone in the entire world.
Two hours left until yet another piece of himself died.
Jacob Thrombey was a mess all around. His usually immaculate hair was out of place from consistently running his hands through it. Fingernails were uneven and bleeding from the nailbed as a result of the nervous chewing, an awful habit he had tried so hard to get rid of.
Jacob had since ditched his more formal wear for a single light-grey long-sleeve, a dark pair of jeans, and a thin black jacket. His mother had brought him a change, but the heavier jacket sat unused in his lap.
The icy wind stung his face, but he no longer cared.
He didn't care if he got sick from this, he didn't care if he got hypothermia, he just stopped caring. He stopped caring about anyone-including himself- other than Thea 10 hours ago.
His knees were pressed against his chest, forearms resting on his knees. Tear stains, fresh or otherwise, that he had yet to wipe away littered his skin.
His head rested against the rough stone, eyes closed but facing the overhang above him.
Any outsider would think the boy was asleep, but in reality he was trying so hard to not fall apart in public.
His eyes opened. Salty tears gathered once more in his dull green eyes.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and if that was true, then Jacob's eyes would show that he was just barely holding himself together.
A grief unlike any other gripped his chest, rendering it difficult to breath. A single sob escaped his lips, heart wrenching as he gripped his hair.
He was falling apart, and he didn't believe he could ever be fixed.
The voices in his head did nothing to help the predicament.
'It's your fault'
'You shouldn't have gotten involved with her.'
'It's your fault she's going to die.'
'You could have stopped that knife.'
'It should be you dying.'
'You deserve to die, not her.'
Finally, Jacob let himself cry. The dam behind his eyes broke.
It was his fault. He should have done more to stop it.
If he hadn't of been too damn absorbed in his phone or himself, then he would have noticed something was up with Ransom a long time ago.
If he hadn't have listened to Astrid about letting her go, then maybe she'd still be alive.
But what's done is done, and there is no rewriting the past, no matter how hard we wish it different.
A/N
All good things must come to an end.
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