Here Lies a Saint (Here Lies #2) - C.L. Matthews Page 0,29

with Cass. With our spot here. Hidden. Safe. A haven.

I close my eyes, only for a moment, a second probably, suspended in time. I'm running on Monsters and depression, my two most toxic traits.

Leaning back against the wall, I let the pain set in as it's ebbed away with weed and the crispness it offers.

"I miss you, Cass," I tell the open space, letting it hear the words my brother can no longer hear or offer back. "You warned me to stay away from them. You told me they were bad." The tears gather in my eyes, my chest pinching with discomfort. "Why didn't I listen?"

Stiffness makes a home in the hollow of my throat. Instead of drinking from the water I brought, I take another drag and hope for the best.

"I think you were with me last night." I can't help my coping, speaking to the world as if Cass is now a part of its grain. "You're why she was killed and not me. It's me who dug, Cass. It's my fault she's gone."

Sad sobs break freely from me, needing to let go of the things that hold me prisoner. I look inside our bunker, searching for Stella, my stiletto blade. After Cass bought her for me, she became my companion, the one who never betrayed me, not even after he left.

She brought me tears.

She soothed my pain.

She kissed my skin like a lover then bled me like our own secret promise.

My hands wrap around her smooth metal casing. It's neon green. Before my hair became toxic, matching me entirely, it was my favorite color.

Still is, it's just different now.

Cass had Stella laser engraved with CH + CH = Family. Most days, we only had each other, the support we could offer one another, and the love only we had. We were close, twins almost, inseparable until Student Gov became our side sibling.

Flicking the blade up with a simple press of a button, I watch in amazement as the silver greets my eyes.

"It's been a while," I whisper to it, tantalizing it as it does me.

The last time I used it, I washed it free of my life's essence.

"Treat me good, girl."

An indent is the first pressure I see on the skin of my wrist. It's hard to tell with the black ink covering almost every inch. The first prick of pain makes me very aware of how gentle I'm being.

It's true. It's been a while.

Bleed for pain.

Bleed for sins.

Bleed for closure.

Blood is my coping mechanism. It's how I convey how I'm feeling, what I'm doing to breathe, and offering myself the only solitude I know.

With my joint pinched between my fingers in the hand that's being colored with crimson, I use the other to add more weight to the drag of the blade.

The first skim against my skin brings a pinch, but it's the endorphin release that makes me feel like I can breathe again.

Thank you for reminding me what razorblades beneath my skin feels like, Corpse.

The sobs come with those words. The snake-like trails of blood spill from me. They slither across my skin, marring the paleness. Razorblades aren't my utensils for my bloody medium. Knives are my tool of choice, my lovers of artistry.

My body heaves with my agony. It weeps red with my despair, and god, does it leak salt for my betrayals. I've allowed each of them passage to my heart. They've danced upon the grave of my heartbeat and sabotaged the flow of my livelihood.

After my third line, my arm is more crimson than black, more blood than ink, more outside of my veins than in.

"I'm sorry I didn't save you, Cass. I'm so fucking sorry," I cry, dropping my blade with a clank. My heart feels slower. My eyelids are heavier. The cuts, while cosmetic and ugly to sight, are not deep enough for life-threatening damage.

I close my eyes, my blunt burning my fingers with dispelled ash, and when I let the darkness take me to a safer place, a smile breaks free.

Time passes, I'm not sure how much, but I hear his voice like the safety net he used to feel like. "Col, you've got to get up, baby sis. You've got to fight this. Don't bleed out on me."

Peeking at the speaking form, I see a tall figure. His locks are longer, sharp, but still chaotic, just like he always was.

"Colton," Bridger utters, breaking some reverie.

My eyes blink heavily. He's not looking at Cassidy's imaginative figure. Why would he?