A/N- Just a little drabble I wrote in between chapters for Theories on How Danger Finds Us. Hope you enjoy!
Sorry
He walks up to her. A slow, gliding walk that provides her with no alert to his presence.
She ran away on purpose, trying to hide from him while she picked up the pieces.
He had followed her as she ran, waiting for the perfect moment to approach her.
He watched her sprint from his room to the bathroom on the seventh floor, frantically rinsing the red, red blood off of her hands. She tries to pick the shards of glass out of her small, slender hands, marvelling in the never-ending flow the cuts create -- some big, most small, barely discernible to the naked eye. She rushes to a toilet stall, any, to grab sheets upon sheets of toilet paper, placing it between her hands and squeezing, trying to stave off the flow.
Her hands are stained but she doesn't care. She grabs more paper and wraps it around each hand like a bandage, completely oblivious to the blond boy spying on her every move.
She moves back to the sink where the shards lay, arranging them into a heart on the white porcelain surface. He holds back a chuckle at the irony.
He's reminded of what she had told him earlier. She tries to pick up the broken heart, whispering what he considers her new mantra.
"Why can't you love me? Why can't you love me? I'll change for you; I'll play the part."
She's now marvelling at the glass heart in her hands; the broken mirror fragments distorting her features. It's the only time he ever finds her ugly, nearly ashamed in knowing that he caused this.
But he doesn't apologize. No, not yet. He wants to know how long she can last without breaking down -- because she hasn't broken down yet. She's not even close. She's only rage and incoherence right now. The shards in her hands belong on his mirror, the one she threw to the ground, believing it to be akin to what he did to her heart.
She opens her hands, letting the broken glass heart fall back into the sink with a tinkle, laughing at the scattered noise.
She looks down at her hands again, happy in that the pseudo-bandages she placed on them are working. They're a gradient in blood -- starting out a stark white around the edges, fading into a pale pink, finally ending in the darkest crimson at the core. She can't help but stare again; mesmerized by the artistic way the thick liquid flows out of her veins.
He joins her in staring, enamoured by how the crimson on her hands matches her crimson hair. He contemplates walking up to her, closing her hands to wake him from his trance, but he decides against it; now is not the time to approach her.
She walks toward the exit, forcing him back into the shadows. Once cleared of the exit, she runs again, this time to the library, with him close behind her, always unbeknownst to her fragile mind.
He finds her by a window, sitting on the ledge, isolated by the shelves of books. It's raining now and she's drawing on the window with her index finger -- a heart, in two parts, wiping it away like the rain wipes the dirt off the window.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, the sound barely audible to his keen ears.
The time is right.
He walks up to her. A slow, gliding walk that provides her with no alert to his presence.
He's behind her, cradling her, rocking her as she finally breaks down.
She shivers, but tries to fight back, reaching her hands back to break free of his grip. He grabs her wrists in time, her fingers curling into fists, angered at being thwarted.
He's finally able to silence her, keeping up the rocking motion that seems to soothe her shattered nerves, her shattered mind.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I am sorry."
She smiles now.
Apology accepted.
A/N- Thanks for reading! Please review!