I was fifteen years old when I died.

There was no warning label packaged with it — the occurrence just fucking transpired, and I was expected to keep up with the number of knife strokes from a promise engraved into my stomach, but how can you ask that of someone? How?

I didn't notice the streaks of crimson upon me at first, because I was too hypnotized by the bastard named Dallon Weekes, and there was that damn smile that just fucking shackled me to him, and I convinced myself that I actually wanted to be there with him, instead of safe in my home, and I likely caused my own murder.

He should've been my arch-nemesis, but he wasn't, and I was fucking insane for thinking that he was anything other than an abuser.

Truth is, Dallon injured me in ways I cannot describe. I was already messed up when I met him, but was okay with that, because at least I was taking care of myself, which I embodied when I endeavored to leave him, and all of this seems like a palpable encouragement that it wasn't my fault, but that will never be so, no matter what he did to me, because he may be an abuser, but he was an abuser with a purpose — my psychologist says that's the same mentality he finds in other victims, but it was evident that it was reality.

So I selected my poisons carefully, with an open palm towards the desolate sky, perusing the insignia of the various pill bottles and devouring every moment to study the effects it would have on my body, but it's not like I actually considered that, because I was ready to die in any shape.

Hydrogen peroxide unquestionably budded as the winner, and now I'm hooked on my own demise.

But none of it really meant anything, because Dallon Weekes was my only drug. He was the only one that could get me lost. He was the only one who interpreted that he couldn't possibly understand to every level. He was the only one that could make me feel like I was alive while fucking killing myself, and maybe he shouldn't have done so much for me, but he did, and I stuck around for a while because of it.

Very soon, I was unintentionally addicted to a metaphor, to a person that was always distant yet adorned with a magnified version of himself that was skillfully presented to the world, and every distinction between a monster and a blessing was hurled into the drain, considering I was too polluted by Dallon's charisma and too muddled by my own head to oppose myself, and an awful lot that did for me.

In my defense, throwing myself away like that seemed like the right thing to do. I was young and troubled and very much like I am now, and I would be the same if that event never developed, but in no way am I thankful for it.

True, I wouldn't be where I am today, but today entails panic attacks, entails monotonous meetings with a psychologist, entails destruction with every blink of an eye, and today I am confronted by my attacker for the first time in two years, and he constrains me to offer a challenge.

And here I am, floundering in those sapphire eyes that meant too much to me for it to be healthy, and a smile plays on Dallon's lips as if nothing ever happened at all.

"It sure has been a long time," Dallon spectates, towing a hand through his sepia locks and glancing around briefly before his gems alight on me. "What have you been doing?"

Nothing drips from my mouth, overshadowed by the shrunken position of my oculi, but as Dallon's expression tempts a response, I agree to it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

My attacker leans in, bewildered. "No?"

I censor the urge to slap him across that fucking perfect face of his, clamping diplomacy over my jaw. "You know what you did to me."

A chuckle recedes to his lungs. "Do you think about it often?"

"Every single day." I protract the words in hopes of adding solemnity, but nothing submerges Dallon's perennial joy.

"Don't you think that's a little obsessive?" When my countenance radiates sternness, he includes, "Just a little?"

"Yes, it is, and do you know why?"

Dallon's face knots in hyperbolic reverie, but his head rotates back and forth a few seconds later.

"It's the fucking obsessive-compulsive disorder that you caused by grabbing my arm the way in which you did, and it's irrational, but it's your touch that contaminated me, and I'll be like this forever."

Dallon elects for the scientific side of things, countering, "Isn't that curable?" He didn't even research my doom.

My foot bruises the carpet, russet material padding the grooves in my shoes, and salivated rage springs free. "Do you think it's fucking curable?"

My assailant condenses a finger to his garnet lips, envisaging prior occurrences. "You know, you're more aggressive than I remembered. You didn't curse much, and now you're on full volume."

"And do you know whom I blame for that? You." My teeth wound the interior of my mouth, aggregating the enmity to within my flesh. "I thought I was the one who left you to the wolves, but it was actually the other way around, and these circumstances ended up worse than I predicted."

Dallon's shoulders boost higher. "There's nothing wrong with seeing an old friend."

"Yes, and that's an opinion originating from the man who couldn't even bear watching me walk out the door. It means nothing."

"It must mean something, because here you are, whining about shit that happened two years ago."

My loafers asphyxiate my attacker's, contrition but a side note. "Fuck you, Dallon Weekes."

Sarcasm blooms in his sapphire eyes, a laugh trailing behind. "Oh, honey, you already did."

A shift in the ambience cackles from the rafters, swooping down and interrogating, "Patrick, is this guy harassing you?"

My body flings around to address the unexpected Pete Wentz, and though my priorities were directed towards him a few minutes ago, Dallon is at the summit now, but I nevertheless lie, "Not at all."

Dallon is impressed, brows insouciantly tipped to portray his emotions. When I lied to him during our relationship, I was able to surpass his dulled sagacity with the ginger flick of a tongue, but now that he knows I'm cheating my friend, intrigue sharpens his wit — though he doesn't testify against me.

"Then you should invite him to sit with us at the bar." Pete's lips crimp in a friendly grin. "It's good for being sociable."

I say nothing, welcoming my downfall once again.

~~~~~

"So where are you from, Dallon?" They're already on a first-name basis — sickening.

Observing as my friend becomes intimate with my abuser definitely wasn't penned on my agenda, but it's not like I can inform Pete of that, so a scowl soaks in my drink as I wait for the hell to elapse.

Dallon sloshes his whiskey against the walls of his chalice, head erect to construct contact between Pete and him. "New Jersey — Newark, more specifically."

Excess substance shuffles down Pete's throat in a mellow roll as nostalgia impinges on the mahogany color of his irises. "Really? We're also from Newark."

Dallon's eyes hold a certain snap to them, an escape of anaphylaxis hovering on the horizon for whomever gazes into the orbs, and his returning smile pinches his lips. "It's really nice down there, especially in summer."

For the first time since the commencement of the conversation, Dallon ogles my trembling form with a subtle glimpse, where panic ferments in my entire body except for the pupils, who are convulsing with unfiltered animosity.

Summer. That was how long our affliction lasted, until a foggy day in August gagged our hilarity with the sharpest knife in the drawer of Dallon's home that fumed formaldehyde from the roof, the only place that gave a damn about people like us, and as we smoked cigarettes in a pitch black storm, giggles sputtered from our lips, and it was obvious that we had made it through hell.

But what came later counteracted it. However, Dr. Saporta would feed me to the lions if I relived that day, so all I can do is mince Dallon with my internal vision and protect my stomach from the churning rhythm of dread.

"Now it's as cold as the arctic, and summer is such a foreign concept." Dallon's voice caving with dejection, he annexes, "Always is so alien, though."

"Didn't take you for a poet," I growl, perspective centered in my water.

Dallon's hands slink towards mine, embraced by soot-chapped leather and eager for reconciliation. "I suppose hanging around you does that to a person." His cobalt stones arrest my attention, weaving a rigid net from hesitance as we delve into the bitter past.

I shy away, because I'm a fucking coward, and Dallon Weekes is not mine to fall for, but he somehow thinks he is, which makes it all the more perilous when I refuse his company.

"Anyway..." Pete continues, miffed by our scene. "Would you like to hang out sometime, Dallon?"

How can I die if I'm already dead, right?

A wink breaks from my abuser's eyelashes, insensible to Pete, reprimanding me, and a smooth "yes" tiptoes from Dallon's manipulative tongue.

An unsettling anecdote zooms by, analogous to my rendezvous with Pete at the coffee shop, where my friend's hand captures a pen to scrawl a phone number against a random napkin abandoned on the bar.

Dallon quells the pleas of the paper by encasing it in his pocket, cheekbones perching high on his face. "I'll see you later then."

That's what he said two years ago — and he was resolute.

~~~~~

A/N: ugh why is Dallon such a cunt

he and saporta should chill together

current vibe: when we watched a video with corbin bleu and my friend was all pissed bc tumblr made him enticing for me so I was just talking about corbinators and shit

~DaCancoonA