Last First Kiss [Brallon+Completed]

29: It's All My Fault

[ A day later; Dallon's POV ]

I wasn't sure why I was going along with Brendon and his antics. The last thing I wanted at the moment was for him to make up some stupid excuse, and for me to fall for it, only to get hurt again. I was walking into a death trap by approaching his apartment door, but I loved him. I was still in love with Brendon Boyd Urie, though he'd hurt me.

I turned the door knob, and pushed the door open. I was no longer afraid of Gerard, since a while back, Brendon insisted that he'd moved out. What a wonderful best friend. Sarcasm. However, my best friend was anything but happy when I told him about Brendon cheating on me. Still, he promised to stay out of it.

"Brendon?" I called out. His couches, TV, and furniture, were all draped in long sheets of plastic. I ignored the strangeness of the situation, and focused on finding Brendon. There was no answer.

I crept down the hallway, pausing at the open door of his art room. Gingerly, I wandered in. Everything was a mess. The paintings that'd originally been tacked to the wall, were either crumpled up, ripped up, or doused in a common color; dark purple, which signifies glo and sadness. The scene put a twinge in my gut.

"Brendon?" I called out, again. The floor had splotches of half-dry, sticky paint everywhere, and the walls were even worse. It was as if Brendon had taken a bottle of dark purple, and squirted it everywhere. I approached the easel, to find the painting he'd been working on, ruined with big letters across the front of it.

It's all my fault.

I frowned, and ran my fingers down the canvas. I didn't want to look anymore. I dropped mu head and hurried out of the room, finally noticing the purple, sticky paint footprints trailing from the room. So I followed them. "Brendon?" I called, as they led me straight into his bedroom. His room was a mess, his bedsheets torn from the bed, and discarded across the floor. His dresser was dirtied with purple fingerprints.

The collage above his bed had been torn down, like he'd taken his hands atthe top, and raked his fingers down the wall, taking down whatever would fall down with him. I turned, and followed the footprints to the kitchen. Resting on the kitchen counter was a fingered up polaroid camera, the one that usually sat on Brendon's dresser. I approached the camera slowly, taking notice of some sheets of paper under the camera, along with a polaroid picture.

I lifted the picture from the camera, my eyes stretching wider in realization. It was a picture of Brendon's wrist, which had many, many names running down it. Although, sitting at the top, was my name, printed in the same cursive as mine was. I pocketed the picture, and lifted the note up, instead.