I don’t want to wake up. I just want to forget.

The monotonous beeping seems to mock me; it sends shivers down my spine. I squeeze my eyes tighter together, trying to tune it out – make it go away, forever.

I get it. I’m alive – leave me alone.

My chest begins to feel tighter and tighter; the beeping grows louder and louder. I can feel myself shaking violently. The bed shifts beside me. I want to scream; beg them to do something about this.

Suddenly, it stops.

My heart pounds in and out of my chest violently, but soon, it begins to slow down. I feel someone brush my long, messy black hair out of my face. I slowly begin to relax at the familiarity of the touch.

“I need to change the sound still, don’t I?” he asks in a low voice. He chuckles lightly when I nod in reply, though I don’t quite see what’s so funny about the situation. He kisses the top of my head and I feel him stand. “I’ll see you tonight, love,” he whispers.

I don’t want him to leave, but I’m too tired to call out to him; plead for him to stay. But I know he needs to be able to go. There have been too many times already, especially recently, where I’ve convinced him to stay, simply by asking him. I’ve learned that he can’t often say no to me – and I’ve found that I sometimes use that to my advantage.

As soon as I hear the front door shut, my body begins to wake up. I come to the painful realization that there is no way I am going to be able to fall back asleep again – especially not with the repetitive thoughts that are constantly plaguing my mind, keeping me awake.

I groan, opening my eyes a little. It’s still dark out, which makes me rather annoyed. Damn him and his stupid alarm; why did he always feel the need to set it, even when he knows he’s going to be awake long before its set to go off? He knows I like to sleep in – I would have to yell at him for it later… again.

I reach over to turn on the light, only to knock a full glass of water onto the floor. Great. One more thing to yell at him for, I guess.

I sigh when I see how much of a state the room is in. Clothes are strewn everywhere throughout the room, on the floor, and on top of furniture. And the list keeps growing.

The next thirty minutes are spent with me trying to register the fact that I’m awake, and accept it. I try to convince myself that I need to get up. After all, if I didn’t again, then that will cause him to worry, which will cause him to yell at me, and me to end up right back at square one.

God, I was so helpless without him.

Before I know it, two hours go by. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:00am, and reluctantly, I crawl out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. I strip down to just my underwear while I wait for the water in the shower to warm up. Before the mirror can steam up, I turn and face the reality of my appearance.

Dozens, if not hundreds, of scars adorn my body, from my wrists, all the way down to my upper thighs. And what’s strange is that I can remember ever single one – the reason for each one the day they appeared on my skin, and for what reason. What each one meant – why they were there.

It’s been four years. Four years is a long time.

You’d think that I would’ve forgotten by now what it’s like. What it’s like to feel pain; what it’s like to want to feel pain.

But I don’t. And I know he knows that too.

He’s finally learned not to stare. Before, I would feel his gaze burn in to the back of my skull; watching my every move. When he was on top of me, I could feel him staring at the knife wound on my abdomen, and the gashes that traced from the insides of my elbows, down to my wrists. But he doesn’t stare anymore. At least, he tries not to.

It’s not entirely his fault, I know. I catch myself staring at them too, when I’m alone. Sure, they’ve healed, but most were still a deep red. Those were the ones that had gotten too deep; that had been reopened countless times. They were hard to avoid looking at, when I used my arms for everything.

I’m grateful for when the mirror finally begins to steam up, hiding the gruesome sight from me. I step under the burning hot water, not bothering to adjust it; make it cooler. It felt nice to feel some sort of pain, every once in a while. It reminded me that I wasn’t some numb robot, who didn’t know how to feel anymore.

Another hour later, the hot water finally begins to run out. I take my time stepping out of the shower and wrapping one of the fluffy blue towels around my frail body. Once I’m as dry as can be, I completely abandon it while I get dressed.

I stare nervously at the clothes on my side of the closet. The majority of the clothing that he had bought for me once I woke up are more revealing than anything I’ve ever owned. Yes; they are appropriate for the hot California weather. No; they do not do anything for me except make me feel naked. Thin fabrics that are almost see-through; tank tops and crop tops that show more skin than I want people to see. Yet I never tell him that they make me uncomfortable. He’s done so much for me – the least I can do is keep my mouth shut about petty shit like what I have to wear every day.

I eventually settle on a pale-blue tank top and a pair of black leggings. Both are “small”, yet they hand loosely off my body. Even the leggings, which are supposed to cling to my legs, are baggy on me. I let out a small sigh. First I’m too fat; then I’m too thin. I can never be happy with myself – and that’s just the truth.

I shiver, and wrap my arms around myself, in an attempt to warm myself. A hopeless attempt, but at least I try. It’s the middle of winter. One of the coldest winters Southern California has ever seen. And here I am, standing in the middle of the room, shaking like a fucking dog, even though there’s at least one sweater in there, somewhere.

I’m pathetic.

Shaking my head, I start moving around the room, picking up the various articles of clothing he left on the floor. At least half of it needs to be washed, I’m sure. So I begin my daily cleaning spree.

“You don’t have to clean, Danny,” he had told me, countless times before. “We have people for that.”

But what else was I supposed to do when I was practically locked up inside all day? I couldn’t sit around and just do… nothing. My mind and body simply wouldn’t allow it. I always had to be doing something. Something productive. Zack – I know he would call it withdrawal. Withdrawal from all the toxins I had put through my body over the years.

The doctor called it OCD.

Everything is practically spotless by the time I’m done, three hours later. I had gone through and cleaned every room, even though I had done the same thing the day before, and the day before, and the day before…

I’m exhausted. All this walking up and down stairs; scrubbing at grime spots that don’t actually exist; sweeping up every last piece of dust, was tiring, to say the least. Doing it every day certainly didn’t help, either.

There’s nothing more for me to do, so I accept defeat and lie down on one of the giant leather couches in the living room. I pull down one of the living room blankets. Clutching at the edge of it, I pull it over my shoulders, trying to find warmth in the thin shawl. I close my eyes, trying to ignore how hungry I am. I hadn’t eaten all day, and while often I was fine without eating, I had been more so, as of late. Though I had my suspicions as to why, I still didn’t know for sure, and I most certainly was not going to bring it up any time soon until I did.

Just as soon as I get comfortable, I hear the front door unlock, and I jump, swearing under my breath. I hear him do the usual – kick off his shoes; store away his keys. “Danny?” he calls. His voice rings throughout the entryway, and echoes into the living room. “Baby?”

He’s early today.

He walks into the living room where I’m lying. He sighs when he sees me. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a little while?” he asks me quietly. For some reason, tears fill my eyes at how gentle and concerned he’s being.

I shake my head.

He walks over to me and sits down, before lifting me up gently and adjusting his body so I’m lying on top of his chest. He begins running his long fingers through my hair. It’s soothing; I feel myself growing sleepy. “How are you feeling?” I stifle a groan.

Of course he wants to start talking now.

“Tired,” I whisper. “Hungry.” He exhales slowly.

“You should eat something first,” he tells me. I roll my eyes.

“I need sleep. Can’t I take a nap first?” I can tell from the look in his eyes that he wants badly to argue, but after a moment, his gaze softens, and he nods.

“Alright. But only for an hour or two, alright?” I nod in agreement. He gives me a small smile before kissing the top of my head. “I love you.” I nod again, closing my eyes for the third time.

I fall asleep to him humming “Dear God” by Avenged Sevenfold.

~
Each nightmare is the same. I’m in the hospital, but I’m awake. I’m walking the halls – the lights flicker; it’s like a scene from a horror movie. I keep walking. There’s a door at the end of the hallway. Somehow, I know if I reach it, I’ll leave behind this dream forever, I’ll finally be free from this endless nightmares.

But I never reach it. And it was always because he had a habit of waking me up before I could.

And today was no exception.

My eyes fly open. I’m a sweaty mess; I can feel it. My eyes lock with his; cold meets warm. He looks worried – he always does.

“Another one?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me. I regain control of my erotic breathing, enough so I could nod. “You should get that checked out.”

“No…!” I exclaim which causes him to frown. He pushes some of my hair out of my face.

“Danny…” I shake my head, sitting up and crawling over him so I could be free of his worried gaze.

But he grabs my arm before I can get too far.

“Danny, we need to talk about this.” I try to pull out of his grip, but he’s too strong for me.

“No we don’t,” I argue.

“Daenerys.” His tone is warning; chilling, even. “You can't keep avoiding this forever. You were in the hospital for four years. Because you tried to kill yourself. You aren't going to simply recover –” he snaps his fingers in front of my face “–just like that.” I refrain from rolling my eyes.

“I'm fine,” I insist. “Honest.” He narrows his eyes at me. He doesn't believe me. He never does. But I know he doesn't want to argue – not now. Not when both of us are hungry; not when he's home early.

Not when we actually have an opportunity to eat together for the first time in three months since he's been in the studio.

Though both of us know that we can't cook for shit.

“Want me to order a pizza?” he finally asks after a moment of tense silence. I nod, relieved for the distraction.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Notes

A/N: updates are going to be a little slow starting out, since I haven't gotten much of a chance to write this. this is actually a rewrite of the version I first started, so it's a little less up-to-date than the other. I have some schoolwork I need to catch up on so writing is no longer my top priority but I will try and catch up on this.

Also, I apologize if the format is a little weird. I started writing this using an alternative for Microsoft Office before I continued on an actual Word document, so this probably will continue to happen throughout this story, so I'm really sorry.

Hope you all enjoyed =)

~WOLFY~