Don't Wanna Lose You Now

No, no, no, no… It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all, but he didn’t want it to happen this way. He pressed a lukewarm, wet washcloth to the cut. Swaying a bit as he leaned heavily on the bathroom counter, trying to clear his mind. Relapsing was one thing, but to pull a suicidal move and then cut too deep was just dumb. He double checked to make sure the door was locked before sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He checked if the wound was still bleeding. Barely. His eyes went to the washcloth, soaked red. He didn’t know how he’d hide this. He washed it out as much as he could, but the washcloth that had been white just a few minutes ago was still a pinkish red. He had just done laundry, so he couldn’t use that excuse to wash it properly. He put antiseptic and a bandage on the wound before pulling off his shirt and wrapping it around the washcloth. He dumped them into his laundry basket and pulled out another lightweight long sleeve shirt.

He’d been panicking so much about how to tell Rosie he relapsed with drinking he didn’t even realize he’d started self-harming again. He went to the bed, pulling his hair back and tying it up before collapsing onto it. He’d lied to the bartenders, he’d lied to the headmaster, he’d lied to Rosalind. And that cut deeper than he physically ever could. He had failed her. Broken his promise. And he wanted to live for Rosie, but it was hard when his mind was convinced the second he told her the truth, she would leave him. Even worse, hate him. He’d lose the love of his life. The one he wanted to change for in the first place.

According to the books, choosing sobriety for someone was a definite way to relapse. But Deimos had never had enough self-respect, from the moment he could read lips he realized people were calling him a menace, a problem, something to be gotten rid of, and he internalized all of it. Every insult, every accusation. His parents had tried to shelter him from it, but the name calling and accusing looks happened everywhere. He grew up being told his statistics, his likelihood of survival, or lack thereof, rather. He didn’t question that people hoped he’d die sooner rather than later, and at one point growing up it flipped to people he knew actually hoping he’d end up taking his own life.

He didn’t want those people to be right. He was living for Rosie, but also living out of spite. Self-respect had nothing to do with it. And therefore it couldn’t be a part of his rehabilitation.

He had to tell her.

But he was so scared of losing her over it. She hated him drinking. She hated his scars. (okay, so she didn’t ever actually say it, but Deimos saw the way she looked at them. Like she wanted to go back in time and stop every scratch, fix every scar. It hurt his heart to see her so sad about them.) Everything he was doing now was things she hated. Lying, drinking, self harm, he was a psychotic break-caused assault away from her probably wanting to denounce him from her life forever.

The instant she came in the room, she asked him, Deimos, what’s wrong? and he knew he’d been caught.

Nothing, He tried anyway, giving her what he hoped was a convincing grin and a shake of his head. Nope, she didn’t buy it.

She wrapped an arm around his, her hand falling perfectly on his fresh wound. Deimos wha-

He couldn’t stop the wince. He wished he could have. He wished he could keep lying to her until he could fix this himself and pretend like nothing ever happened. That he’d been fine, and then maybe a few years down the line he’d confess the slip up.

Unfortunately for him, his fiancee was rather observant. She didn’t miss his wince. She gave him a curious look, moving to pull up his sleeve.

Deimos pulled his arm away, cradling it in his other hand. It’s nothing. I almost dropped something heavy at work and caught it in a bad position. Just a bruise. He lied. More lies. Lies on top of lies. His chest hurt and a lump formed in his throat. I’m sorry Rosie… He thought to himself. He was nothing without her, so he’d do anything to not lose her.

Rosalind, for once, didn’t seem to want to accept his words as truth. Why now? Was all Deimos could think as she gave him the most skeptical look he’d probably ever seen on her face. She gently took his hand, and with no force on her part brought it back down between them. She rolled up the sleeve to reveal the bandage, a bit of blood staining it a bit. Deimos. She said firmly. Explain.

Deimos stared at the ground, biting his lip. He took his arm back, pulling the sleeve down again. I have no explanation. He said finally, and it was so quiet.

So defeated. Deimos’ emotions were making Rosalind’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t felt in a while. His emotions were always strong, but this one was the one that hurt the most. The one that was the sign he’d given up, and it made her heart ache for him on top of the emotions she picked up from him. She never blamed him for it, they both had rough pasts, in ways the other couldn’t begin to fathom for themselves. Deimos didn’t know what it was like to lose a twin, or to experience… that, or (truly) run away. And she didn’t know what it was like to be a hybrid, to be told you’d fail from the beginning, to grow up a supernatural among humans, to grow up deaf among hearing, having to learn to read lips just to get by day to day. She gently guided his chin so he’d look at her, and she gave him a kiss. I’m not mad at you. She wanted to add in the fact that she was actually mad he’d lied to her, but she knew now wasn’t the time for that. But I really think you should get help, Deimos. She urged him.

Deimos scoffed and turned away, crawling onto the bed and pulling his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. I will. Just not here. We don’t have the right people here.

What do you mean? Rosalind asked, curious. She sat a bit away from him further down the bed.

Deimos uncurled himself, getting his computer and typing something in and then turning the computer around. There’s something called schema therapy. It’s supposed to take negative, lifelong behavioral patterns like… His eyes drifted to his arm, and he winced slightly before looking back to Rosalind, and help replace them with positive patterns. I think this would be the best approach for me but I don’t think the therapists here have the means to do it.

She looked over the information. It was nice to see he was still trying to get better, even if he slipped up. He looked like he was desperate to get her approval. That she was happy he was trying and should be rewarded, like a puppy who learned a new trick, but also like he was trying to dismiss what he did.

She took his hands in hers, and again she got his direct attention, Deimos, I’m glad that you’re planning ahead, but that doesn’t excuse now. Why not message me again when you wanted to self harm? Or find Felix? She paused before realizing something. Is there anything else you’re hiding? She hoped she was wrong.

The face Deimos made, whether he realized he did it or not, told her she hit the nail on the head. Still, she wanted to see if he’d say it. He seemed like he wanted to, but an emotion she wasn’t used to crept up in her senses: fear. What was he scared of? Was he still worried she’d regret agreeing to marry him? She loved him when he was in his darkest hours, why did he think a slip up while he was trying to change would change her mind. Borderline personality disorder was a strange thing indeed, even he’d admitted he knew the thoughts were stupid, but still he let them overpower him. The fear she felt radiating from him was stifling, and his gaze was glued to the space between them.

I… I’ve been drinking again. He said, and he winced, as if waiting for the repercussions. Waiting for her to… do whatever it was he always imagined she would do. I’ll get sober again just please… don’t leave me. He begged, his hands clenching onto hers desperately.

She kissed his forehead, I’m not going to leave you. She told him, but also signed it, using both of their hands for the sign movements, a giggle escaping her lips as she awkwardly tried to coordinate it. But, the awkwardness seemed to pay off, and Deimos cracked a small smile as well. His eyes were red, watery, like he was fighting everything in him to not shed tears. You fell off the track is all. Just have to get up and start running again.

Deimos raised an eyebrow, “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes…”

Do you know it then?

Deimos shook his head, the smile getting a bit wider, I can’t remember either.

Rosalind tapped his forehead to get his attention. Get sober again, get help. She urged him, laying a hand gently over his arm.

Deimos’ smile fell, and he was back to looking ashamed, Yeah… I will.

She kissed his forehead before putting her own against his. That’s all I ask of you Deimos. I won’t leave you. “Deimos.” She said as she pulled away, signing his name to get his attention. His eyes followed her. I fell in love with you when you were 18. You were at your darkest point, arguably in your life so far. As we grew up, I only fell deeper in love because this is not who you are, and I know that. If I could fall for you in those circumstances, do you really think I’d leave you over a relapse? He looked like he was about to say something, but she held up a hand. I’m not happy about it. I’m especially upset you lied to me. But I expected you to relapse. No one is perfect, and you’ve been drinking… and self harming… for a long time. I’m glad you got sober so quickly, but I wasn’t expecting you to change overnight. She signed her next words, I love you so, so much.

Deimos smiled, and maybe it was her imagination, but she thought maybe she saw one small tear escape. He nodded and signed back, I love you too. I never want to lose you. Before adding out loud, “I can’t lose you.”

She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile, Hmm don’t worry. You’ll never get rid of me.