Bloodline [h.s.]

thirty-two.

My brain pieced together the night he slept walk to the beach and described the panic attacks he used to have. Alternative methods is what he said he used to cope. It was clear now those methods were destruction.

"I don't want you to see me this way. I need you to leave." He said out of breath as I led him out of the field of broken glass back to the bedroom, where he finally collapsed to his knees in front of the bed.

"Let me help you, please." As I leaned forward to wrap my arms around him, he buried his head in my knees.

"I would never judge you. You can trust me." I pleaded softly. Adding to the broken pieces on the floor, the angry barrier I was faced with shattered. He couldn't fight it any longer.

"You don't understand. I can't... even if I want to. I can't let you..."

"I don't know how to properly explain it. My ears start to ring. My throat tightens up, and it's like I can't breathe. I just physically can't." The words from that night played in my head. He didn't know how to hurt when he wasn't alone.

"Yes, you can, and you need to. This isn't good for you."

"Let me be alone. Bridget, please." His voice began to resemble what I imagined the strain of a stretched rubber band to sound like. I didn't understand why he felt he needed to hide from me.

"You know I'm not leaving. You can shout at me all you want and be angry, but me leaving isn't going to happen." I said. He stopped fighting me.

My hand massaged his shoulders to soothe him. His chest took in slowing, laboured breaths, rising and falling against my legs.

"You can cry, Aiden. It's okay." I whispered and kissed his head.

Saying his name felt so odd now. I couldn't call him Jacob anymore, but I wasn't used to calling him Aiden either. The uncertainty of not even knowing what name to call him reminded me how angry I still was. For now though, I had to push down all conflicting thoughts swirling around my head. That fight could wait.

"The bullet was for me." It was so quiet that I nearly missed it.

"This isn't your fault. You didn't make this happen." I slid off the bed onto my knees so I could hold more of him. Unsure if that would help or make it worse, I started off slow until he leaned closer as a single, choked sob cracked through his lips.

"That shouldn't be her blood. It should be mine."

"Look at me, please." I lightly pulled on his wrists.

I have seen him angry, upset, and today, I saw him violent. But I had never seen him lose control this way. He let me move his hands away from his face. Sixteen years of unacknowledged pain pooled along his waterlines.

He brought his palms to eyes to hide it, embarrassed of himself. This foreign state of vulnerability was  uncomfortable to him. The contrast from earlier gave me whiplash. Hours ago, he was dangerous, but now, the danger in him dissolved completely. I moved closer. I could feel his heart rate increasing with every breath.

All of the poisonous "training" caged his thoughts like criminals in his prison of a mind. As he sucked in one last sharp breath, the distress in his eyes pleaded for saving of some sort.