Character(s): Paul; Jacob
Type: hurt/comfort; angst; slash
Summary: What happens when the Pack's resident hot-head and troublemaker is rejected by his imprint ? Will he succumb to grief or will he find solace in the arms of another ?
Comments & Reviews: positive comments welcomed
Disclaimer: All you recognize belongs to Stephenie Meyer ( including these two fiesty, gorgeous wolves - unfortunately ! ). The rest ? To my warped, hyperactive imagination ...
A/N: The Demon Spawn never happened. Ever. I'm in complete denial ... In my AU she doesn't exist.
Warning: contains slash and strong language.
I never thought she'd leave me. Just walk out like that. That she didn't love me. Never loved me. That it would hurt so fucking badly ...
I feel like I'm being flayed alive. Like I'm being torn apart and my heart ripped into tiny pieces. My chest feels like its being crushed in a fucking vice and I can't breathe.
Rachel Black was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Tall, willowy and graceful with long, raven hair and limpid, soft, dark eyes that were full of wisdom and intelligence. And despite the fact that she was my imprint, I fell for her. I loved her with all of my being. She became my life. Gave me a reason for living and was as vital to me as the air I breathed. But her rejection was devastating and it's slowly, but surely killing me.
It's been less than a month since she's knocked me back and to make sure that I realized that she meant business, she caught the first available flight to New York .
Her family are secretly relieved that she's kicked me into touch. Yet Billy, somehow had the grace to feel bad for me even though he was far from happy when he found out I'd imprinted on his beloved daughter. Rebecca, her sister, couldn't care either way. She'd left home and lived by the philosophy of the imprint being "out of sight and out of (her) mind."
Jacob though, hadn't taken the news of my imprint on his sister well. He'd been furious and made no bones about hiding his anger and disgust towards me. Although we were pack brothers, we'd never got on, being polar opposites. He hated me with a passion and because of his fiery temper - which was as bad as mine - I could never resist taunting him. Thankfully, life was never boring with him around as he never failed to rise to the bait, providing me with hours of endless amusement.
But since Rachel's cut me out of her life, there's no pleasure or joy left in mine. Even my favourite pastime of tormenting her baby brother no longer appeals to me. Nothing matters any more. Life doesn't matter and I certainly don't matter. The way I feel right now is ... Fuck ! There's just no point carrying on without her. I don't want to carry on anymore. I've no purpose and my life's just fucking meaningless if I can't share it with her. It's just ... just so fucking pointless ...
I know I'm in a bad way. I can't deny it. I look and feel like crap.
I haven't phased in almost a month. God only knows when I last ate. My weight has plummeted and the last time I saw myself in the mirror I looked like skin and bone. I'm well on the way to looking like someone from a prisoner of war camp. In a vain attempt to try to forget what I've lost, alcohol's become my new best friend. I know I should do something about it, but in all honesty, I just don't give a damn ... I don't care anymore. Why the hell should I ? It's not as if anyone else cares about me or gives a shit if I live or die. So, why should I give a shit ?
The pain I feel is relentless. It gnaws at me constantly. It burns fiercely and is all-consuming. My heart aches desperately and the loss of my beautiful imprint is driving me insane. Killing me slowly ... Murdering me from the inside ...
Jack Daniels on an empty stumoch is not a good thing. Trust me ... I know.
At first, I drank to forget. To numb this constant pain I feel. It did sort of help in the beginning. Provided me with some kinda respite. Then something would happen. Something that would remind me of her. A faint trace of her perfume in the air. Or a passing glance at another girl who'd slightly reminded me of her. Or hearing her favourite music being played on the radio. All of those things would suddenly strike me like a hard, violent blow, reminding me of the woman I loved. Whom I'd lost. How I'd been rejected ... Then I'd find myself spiralling out of control into the depths of agonizing darkness and despair. And my fractured heart would start breaking all over again.
So now, I brought other friends into the mix, to keep me and Jack company. I started taking painkillers and tranquilizers. Stupid, I know ... But anything's worth a try, isn't it ? And I'm so fucked up now, I'll try almost anything to get by. Hell ! Even numbness is better than all of this pain. It has to be. Day by day, piece by piece, I'm fading away. Losing the will to live. Slowly dying. All because of my shattered heart and this stupid fucking imprint.
I used to be strong, y'know ... ? Physically, mentally and emotionally. But now ... ? I'm just a shell. An empty, worthless husk. I was the pack's resident hot-head and troublemaker. Always unable to keep my goddamn mouth shut and forever getting dragged into, or more often than not, starting brawls. I just couldn't help myself. Couldn't resist getting into trouble. I was a loudmouth. Sarcastic. Cocky. Insensitive and arrogant. Forever winding the other pack members up, especially our fiesty, tempestuous she-wolf, Leah and Jacob, with his short fuse and explosive temper which matched mine perfectly.
Imprinting calmed me down a lot. Made me slightly more considerate of other people's feelings and distracted me from trouble. I was happier. Quieter. Kinder. Less impatient. More tolerant.
But everything changed once Rachel left. I became silent. Moody. Withdrawn. I kept to myself. And like a wounded animal hid, so that I could lick the gaping, bloody wound left where my heart used to be. All of the boundless energy I possessed simply vanished, leaving me weak and lethargic. I lost interest in everything. Everyone. Especially myself. Any hope I had that she would return to me has long gone. I've had to accept it and try to deal with it.
But accepting something and dealing with it are two separate things entirely. It's easier said than done. I'm not fucking dealing with it. I'm not up to it. My fighting spirit's abandoned me. My lust for life has deserted me. Leaving me weak and vulnerable. And I hate it. Absolutely hate it ...
So that's why I'm now holed up in my bathroom, my emaciated, half-naked body sprawled on the cold white-tiled floor. I'm not alone, my constant companions - Jack D., a box of temazepam and an old cut-throat razor - are by my side. There's about an inch left of the fiery amber liquid sloshing about the bottom of the large bottle and only half a strip of sleeping tablets left.
For some warped reason, the sight of the lethal razor blade freshly stained with crimson greatly amuses me and brings a twisted smile to my lips. The smell of freshly spilled blood - mine - hangs heavily in the air, yet it doesn't bother me. I'm too far gone and past caring by now. The sight of the myriad of lines, deep, free-flowing and a rich scarlet, criss-crossing my abdomen and thighs fascinate and mesmerize me. And with the combined efforts of my loyal comrades, my wounds aren't healing as quickly. I may be completely rat-arsed, but I knew damn well what I was doing when I took those pills with neat liquour. I was aware that they'd affect my body's healing abilities and that's exactly why I did it. This fucking imprint's finally done it - it's got me whipped. Beaten me ... I'm just so sick and tired of it all. All this shit ...
Like I said, I'm so tired. I can barely keep my eyes open. Everything looks dark and blurry and I ache all over. My body feels heavy. Sluggish. Yet my head's spinning. It's like I'm drowning. Being pulled under a powerful, fast moving current and dragged into merciful darkness. My breath suddenly hitches and I fall into oblivion's shadowy embrace ...