Deacon Fallout 4 Warning: Mention of S*icide/Self Harm, Gore, Angst, Drug and Alcohol Abuse
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I walked into my home, locking the front door behind me. I shrugged my coat off, and tossed it onto the couch, stretching, then walking upstairs. Stairs were a luxury, especially in a run-down settlement like Sanctuary. I dragged a hand on the rail. It was quiet. No banging of dishes, or radio. I frowned a little, "Deacon?" No response.
I trudged up the stairs, and got to the top, faced with the bathroom. The door was open, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. From the bathtub, all the way down the hall, were puddles. Blood and water swirling in the shape of footsteps. I followed the trail with my eyes, feeling a ball in my throat, "Deacon?" I hardly heard myself. I walked down to our room, and saw that the door was open. I saw him with his back to me, with his boxers on, and I watched as he pulled on a pair of shorts, then sat at the end of our bed.
He was turning the sleeve of a clean shirt right-side-out, and I stood in the hall, watching. His face looked devastatingly sad, then distorted. He frowned, looking back down to the shirt and sniffing like his nose was stuffed. He turned it the right way, and pulled it over his head. I couldn't bring myself to speak. He stood up, grabbing a coat, and brushing past me as if he hadn't seen me at all. I stayed still as he thumped down the stairs. I gripped the door frame, feeling light-headed. I stumbled back to the bathroom, hoping for the best only to be hit by the worst. I saw a razor, slick with blood, sitting by the sink, and looked at the numerous red drops that stained the white porcelain. I looked to the bath, seeing a floating pill bottle, completely empty. The water was blood red. I couldn't breathe.
I went to the stairs, holding the rail in a steel grip. I made my way down, noticing that the door was still locked. He hadn't left. I looked to the kitchen, and heard him rustling around the freezer. I moved so I could see him, and watched as he grabbed a bottle of hard liquor. "Deacon?"
He didn't even hear me. His skin was still wet from the bath, and his hands shook. His wrists weren't leaking anymore, and the skin had already begun to dry itself up. He didn't look hurt. He looked empty. There was nothing behind his eyes. I watched as he brought the bottle to his lips, and took a swig. He didn't move the bottle away, and managed to gut more than I knew he could. I sat in front of him, "Deacon?"
He sniffed again, and arched his back so he could get something out of his pocket. It was a pill, a circular one, in a tiny plastic bag. I watched as he popped it, then used the liquor to gut it. He leaned his head back with a sigh, and kept his eyes closed for a long time before stumbling to his feet. I watched as he went towards the back door. I got to my feet, following him outside. I heard him sniveling, and heard a sob escape his lips, which were glistening with striped of vodka. He stopped a little ways away, dropping like a ton of bricks. I watched silently as he lay down, shaking violently with sobs, and curling up in a ball.
There was a rose on the ground next to him, and the soil seemed to have been freshly placed. I looked over and saw Nick and Preston, side by side at the fence-side. I walked over, panic rising up, and my throat becoming filled with pain, "What's the matter with Deacon? Why won't he talk to me? Why is he ignoring me?"
Preston sighed, looking to Nick, "You think he'll be okay?"
Nick's eyes were full of sorrow, and sympathy. He looked to Preston, then to Deacon, "Honestly? No. He's been this way since Y/N died."
Author's Note This was a vent. I am okay. Don't ask.
