He Paints a Pretty Picture

"Tom? Tom, where are you? This isn't funny anymore," I called out, my voice small and shaky.

The dark hall I was walking down seemed to only close in on me with each step I took, only succeeding in causing my anxiety to skyrocket through the fucking roof. I had no idea what was going on or where I was, and I could feel a panic attack beginning to surge through me.

Just as I was about to give up, sit on the floor and scream, allow the darkness to consume me completely, a door appeared on my left. It was slightly ajar, and a light was shining in the room hidden beyond. I couldn't see what was inside said room, but, upon deciding the light was far more welcoming and comforting than the dark, I inched my way closer.

As I stepped into the stream of light pouring from the small crack of where the door wasn't clicked into place, the walls seemed to back off, and a weight was seemingly lifted from my shoulders. It made me feel more secure, no doubt, but I still had a painful, nagging feeling deep in my gut.

Pushing the piece of wood open on its hinges, I step into the room. I'm momentarily blinded by how impossibly bright it is, but, after blinking furiously for a few seconds, my vision gradually returns to me.

I was standing in the middle of Tom's room, which looked a lot cleaner than it usually did. That unnerved me, but I couldn't quite place my finger on why. He cleaned his room, big deal.

"Tom? You in here?" I call out, getting no response in return. It's eerily quiet, except for the sudden sound of water running in the bathroom, which is connected to his room by the wall on the right.

I move closer to the door, my breathing and heart rate becoming slightly more erratic with each shuffle of my feet. It takes no more than twenty seconds, but when I'm stood in front of the door, I'm shaking. The light sound of water seemed to grow louder until it was a heavy roar, like a tsunami was preparing to crash down around me.

"Tom?" I said again as I reached for the door handle. Turning the knob, I nudged the door open, squeezing my eyes shut in fear. When the piece of wood was no longer blocking my way, I counted to ten before opening my eyes.

The bathroom was bright, but not as bad as the bedroom had been. I couldn't see Tom, but the shower curtain was closed and the water was running on full blast from the faucet. I could see the top of Tom's head leaned against the wall where the curtain didn't completely reach, but he was oblivious to me standing no more than five feet away.

"What are you doing in there?" I asked, and as before, I was greeted with no response. He didn't even flinch as my voice broke the air, but I figured that was just because the water was running.

All of a sudden, the water overflowed the tub, but it wasn't clear; it was red. My eyes widened as I rushed forth and tore the shower curtain back. My mouth became dry and tears sprung to my eyes, the panic attack I'd narrowly avoided earlier hitting me full force.

The room began to literally spin around me as I took in the scene: Tom was laying fully clothed in the bathtub, which was still filling and overflowing with water. His sleeves were rolled up and his wrists were gashed open, but there was no more blood pooling from them; he'd been drained completely, leaving his flesh to appear paper thin and translucent. On top of that, there was a small blade and an empty pill bottle floating in the midst of it all, just about ready to spill over the edge with the water, which was now a faint pink instead of the deep red it'd been before.

I backed up a step, and as I did so, I caught a glimpse at the wall. Smeared in the crimson liquid that had been pouring from his slit wrist were four simple words: You did this, Alex.

My eyes widened and my breathing increased impossibly more. This was my fault; I caused Tom, my only brother, to go tumbling over the edge and commit suicide. I wouldn't believe it if someone else had told me so, but it was written right there for me to see in big, red letters.

My hyperventilating came to a sudden end as I realized what I had to do. Just as I thought it, the glint of silver fell with the cascading water, ending up at my feet. With shaky hands I reached out to pick it up.

My courage slowly started to dissipate as I rolled my sleeves up, but there was no backing out now; I couldn't live with myself after this. I just couldn't do it.

With one, final, shaky breath, I whispered out a quiet, "I'm sorry," and pushed the metal deep into my flesh, the instant sting bringing a fresh round of tears and a sharp hiss of pain from my throat. I repeated the process until both of my forearms were scattered in cuts. It actually reminded me of a poem I'd once seen somewhere; it had been burned into my brain, even though I'd never cut before, and I sure as hell thought Tom hadn't. Maybe it was a one time thing, or perhaps he used his hips and thighs until now. Anyway, the poem goes:

He paints a pretty picture, but the picture has a twist; you see, his paint brush is a razor, and his canvas is his wrist.

He paints his pretty picture, in a color that's blood red. While using his sharp paint brush, he ends up finally dead.

His pretty picture's fading, quite slowly on his arm. The blood is not racing through him; he can no longer do harm.

He painted his pretty picture, but his picture had a twist; you see, his mind was his razor, and his heart was just his wrist.

The final line rings through my head as my vision blurs and darkens. I try and fight it just a little longer, but its no use. Its too late; I'm already gone.

"Alex? Baby, it's okay; you're okay!" a voice says, causing my eyes to snap open as I shoot into a sitting position in my bed. Sobs are filling the air and it takes me a few moments to realize that they're coming from my own sore throat.

Looking to my right, I can make out Jack's panicked expression through the dark. His wide eyes show no signs of anger or sleepiness, only worry. I throw myself at him, allowing my body to succumb to my uncontrollable weeping.

Jack's arms wrap tightly around me and he does his best to pull me into his lap, where I curl up into as small a ball as I can manage. He starts out by pressing a gentle kiss into my hair before he begins to whisper sweet nothing's and promises into my ear. Slowly but surely, I begin to relax in his grip.

"What happened, baby?" he finally asks me quietly, the fingers of his right hand moving to card through my messy bed head.

"I.. I had a b-bad dream-m. I was w-walking dow-down a d-dark hall.. hallway and.. and.." I try, but my voice is quivering too much and I can feel the tears start to push their way into my eyes again.

"Sh, it's okay, baby; I know the rest," he shushes softly. "It's only a dream; you weren't the cause and you're okay. Look, see?" He snaps on the bedside lamp and holds my wrists so that the underside is facing upwards, in plain view for both of us to see.

Kissing along the flesh of my forearms, he mumbles a quiet, "You're okay, Alex. Everything's okay. Your wrists are fine, see? I won't let any harm come to you, especially if its by your own hand. I won't let you do that."

I take an unsteady breath to calm my nerves, and he looks up at me, his fingers moving to trace lazy patterns over the plains of flesh his lips just mapped out.

"How do you feel now?" he questions me quietly after a few moments of his eyes searching my face. The best answer I can give is a light shrug, but he isn't settling with that. "Alex.."

"It's my fault he's gone, Jack. It's all my fault," I whimper, burying my face in his neck as a fresh round of sobs racks through my body.

His arms pull me closer as he continues to whisper reassuring things to me, which I don't even pay attention to at this point.

Of course, me ignoring him doesn't last long, especially when he leans away and I'm forced to sit up.

"I want you to listen to me, alright?" he begins before jumping into the same speech he gives me every time I have my recurring nightmare. You'd think I'd be over that day by now, which was eight years ago, but I guess not.

"None of what happened was your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. You need to stop blaming yourself, because if you don't, this is all just going to get so much worse. I don't like seeing you in pain, and all I can do is try and make you feel better; it hurts me too. There was nothing you or anyone could do, and what's done is done. You gotta let your past go now, baby. It's what he would've wanted."

I nod, but don't really know if I'll be able to move on or not. All I know is that my body is once again tired and a yawn escapes my lips. I'm scared to go back to sleep, but I can't stay up any longer.

Jack notices my body become rather limp in his hold and he scoots a bit down the bed until he is lying on his back, me directly on top of him. He presses a kiss into my hair, murmuring a small, "I'll never let anything happen to you, baby; I love you too much to see you in pain."

As I finally drift off to sleep a few minutes later, I replay Jack's speech in my head, the same line being repeated over and over in my mind. 'I won't let any harm come to you, especially if its by your own hand.'

I feel much more at ease knowing that someone loves and cares enough about me to constantly save me from my thoughts as well as myself, and for that, I owe him my very life. I probably wouldn't have it if it weren't for him.

I tilt my head and kiss the underside of Jack's jaw quickly before I snuggle back into his chest. "Thanks, Jack," I mumble, not expecting an answer since I thought he'd already fallen back asleep.

His arms squeeze my waist as he asks back a, "For what?"

I sit quietly for no more than a moment before deciding on answering with, "For saving my life."