@imaginepostingonsideblogs
Your name is Bradley Spencer and your boyfriend is trying to kill you.
Or at least, you think he is trying. ‘Trying’ because he just attacked you with a knife, ‘trying’ because he didn’t cut far enough to finish you off quickly. Rex’s knife. That somehow makes it worse.
The gash around your neck is deep enough to fill your throat with blood, and it’s shallow enough that you think it might’ve been an accident.
It was an accident, right? Something spooked him and he attacked, blindly. That’s why he’s backing away in horror, that’s why he looks so guilty. Why isn’t he calling the ambulance? He needs to call someone, you’re sure they’ll understand if he explains that he slipped up.
He didn’t mean to stab you.
You try to tell him that it’s alright, it was an accident, but he needs to get someone here right now or else-
Your mind blanks, you can’t think of that. You’re not going to. It’s not going to happen.
-else you will keep bleeding all over your carpet and it’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean up. He doesn’t want to spend the weekend scrubbing your blood off the carpet, right? You will make him help, you swear to god. So he better call someone before it has the chance to dry.
You take a breath to threaten him with hours of scrubbing stained fabrics but blood rushes in instead of air and your lungs protest. You’re starting to get scared.
Cas is still not taking out his phone.
It’s like jumping into a pool and inhaling water, except that it hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt. You feel tears welling up from the sheer pain. Faintly, you thought your adrenaline would keep you from the worst of it, keep you detached from the actual event but you are as present as ever and you feel every throb of your severed flesh.
It’s no longer a possibility looming over you, it’s the only road, the only possible ending. Cas isn’t going to help.
Fear kicks in, raw and animalistic, cold like you just plunged into ice water. Your entire body shudders. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.
You’re no longer standing, fingernails digging into the now warm, wet strands of the carpet, but you can’t find the strength to drag yourself towards Cas, he’s too far away. He looks terrified. You’re sure you do too.
The knife is still in his hand, tinted red from where he had slashed you.
It’s all so confusing. Not thirty minutes ago you were happy to see him, he came in unexpectedly but that’s fine, you are always happy to see him.
The apartment feels more homey with him around, perched on his chair that only he is allowed to sit in (because it’s the most comfortable one and you are nothing if not the most gentlemanly boyfriend to ever exist, up until you drape yourself in his lap despite his protests), responding to your teasing with snide banter of his own, a smirk that sometimes softens into something more sentimental and genuine which means more to you than his rare words of affection.
Cas always acts like admitting he’s in love is the most embarrassing thing that could happen to him and you find it endearing, especially because he has other ways of telling you he does. Like when he steals your sweaters or laughs at your mediocre jokes or begrudgingly lets you hug him.
When he came to your door, he was upset. You would’ve never turned him away. A fight with Rex, perhaps. Rex is an enigma you can never figure out but for some reason Cas is still attached to him. You were ready to offer comfort and agree with whatever insults he was going to throw at his (ex?) husband, but tonight you didn’t get through to him.
Whatever happened...it was far beyond what you could understand or even begin to fix.
And then Cas got heated. And then the knife came out. And now you are lying on the floor, choking on your own blood.
You’ve joked about your life being meaningless before and there were times you certainly believed it but now, now you realize how short it has been and how much more there could be if only you can close the gash on your neck and stop inhaling all that blood. Why isn’t Cas here? Why is he staring at you from across the room, not helping, not yelling, just watching you die like he is powerless to stop it?
Why can’t you muster enough strength to yell at him to help?
You try and nothing but an incoherent wet gurgle of Cas’ name comes out. It doesn’t sound like his name at all, perverted with the inevitable. You try again. You can’t feel the tears on your cheeks over the warmth of your blood.
Cas, please. You try to compel him with your thoughts. He is worlds away and yet right there, just across the room. Please. Help me. I don’t want to die. Help me. Call someone. Help me stop the blood. Oh god, it hurts so much.
Your hand opens and closes around nothing.
The room is spinning now.
Your panic increases as you realize you’re approaching the end. Nothing either of you can do about that now. You try to push yourself closer to your boyfriend, wanting to at least feel him there with you before you go. It’s getting hard to see and the only thing you’re more scared of than dying is dying alone.
If you can reach his hand, maybe you’ll stop feeling so afraid. Maybe it’ll hurt less. You just need to reach him. You just have to drag yourself across the room a little further. Cas. Please. Don’t let me die like this.
