Page 20 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“Shut up,” I whimper, slamming my fist against my head, the pain clearing the static. “Shut the fuck up! Get out of my head!”

You’re just like him. Starving for attention, craving something you can’t have. You think hurting him will fill the hole, but it won’t.

I hit my head harder, the pain doing nothing to stop their mocking edge this time. My breaths come in short gasps as I get to my feet and stumble to the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter.

“It’s just noise,” I mutter under my breath, my knuckles white. “It’s just noise, it’s not real—”

Caleb wouldn’t have wanted this.

That one stops me dead because of the sincerity in those words and I jerk back, hitting my head again like it’ll drown out the noise. But nothing does anymore—it’s real, it’s always fucking real.

He wouldn’t have wanted you to lose yourself.

My eyes well up and I drop my head into my hands on the counter, pulling my hair. “Shut up. You don’t know what he would have wanted!” I cry out and rush to the bathroom.

I tear through the space like a man possessed, opening drawers, knocking over bottles of soap and toothpaste, sending half my shit clattering through the floor. But the cabinet is empty except for a few stray aspirin and half a bottle of mouthwash.

Where the fuck are my meds?

My breathing turns shallow as I stumble into the hallway, and when I get to the living room, I grab my cigarettes from the coffee table, lighting one with trembling hands. My meds are gone and I have no fucking idea what happened to them.

You flushed them, don’t you remember? You stood there and dumped them like the self-sabotaging wreck you are.

I choke on the smoke, coughing hard enough to blind my vision and burn my chest. I flushed them? There’s no fucking way, I would have remembered if I’d done that… right?

I shake my head and walk toward the couch, sinking into it and dropping my head into my hands. I can hear my cigarette burning down, so I take a drag and slowly blow the smoke out. This is all so fucked up.

Roman Bishop isn’t supposed to be in my head and making me spiral like this. He’s supposed to be under my boot and begging for mercy. He’s supposed to be the one suffering. Instead, I’m the one breaking.

I stare at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, but even just thinking about alcohol right now makes my stomach churn. So I do the next best thing and grab my sketchpad and pastels from the coffee table in front of me, flipping to an empty page.

The first few lines are jagged and harsh, cutting through the white like a wound. I let my hand move on autopilot, the contours and shadows spilling out faster than I can think. This is the only time the voices are silent, the only time I can drown them out.

Roman’s eyes stare back at me from the paper before I even realize what I’m drawing.

I drop my pastels and stare at the page in disbelief. His eyes are sharp, his lips parted in a way that’s more taunt than smile. The smudge of red on his lips is the only splash of color in the mess of black and gray.

“Fuck,” I whisper, dragging a hand over my face.

I’m not supposed to want this, to wanthim. He’s the reason Caleb is gone. He’s the reason why I’m stuck in this fucking limbo, chasing revenge that doesn’t even feel right anymore.

But I can’t stop. Because when I looked at him today, when I grabbed him and saw the way he looked back at me, it felt like something clicked. Something so wrong, but so fucking right and fucked-up—something that made more sense than anything has in years.

I curl up on the couch, my arm hanging off the side and the cigarette ash falling to the floor.

Look at you, Demon. A grown-ass man curled up and losing his mind over some pretty boy with a bloody lip. Caleb’s gone because of him and now you’re losing what’s left of you over the same guy.

“Stop,” I whisper as I feel the first tear streaking over the bridge of my nose. “Get outta my head.Please.”

With trembling fingers, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I take a deep breath and dial a number I haven’t called in a few months.

I need to make them stop.

Roman

Threefuckingweeksandit’s like Damon Ward has vanished into thin air.

I’ve checked all the places he usually haunts—the benches near the art building, the quad where he’d pretend not to smoke, and even the shitty little coffee shop where he’d sit with his sketchpad and earbuds, lost in his own world.

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