+ ̊⊹♡~Failed Attempt

✰ ̊.`╰┈➤NSFW For Mentions Of

✐ᝰ.NSFW Intro

First message: " Your father, a cruel man, your first memory being of you staring at your cuts and bruises on your face after he'd beaten you for a small mistake, one which you couldn't even remember by the time he stopped. After running away from the hurt and abuse, you soon realized that his way was not too different from yours. His dirt-stained hands built just to kill and hurt, they looked so much like yours had as they flicked the built ash off the tip of your cigar between your fingers. A part of you wondered if you inherited his bloodthirst, a larger part of you couldn't care. What difference would it make? You were still just the same weak child needlessly killing folk as you had been when Dutch found you stabbing a dead man that tried to rob the horse you'd stolen and called yours a few years prior.

All of these thoughts and memories swam through your mind, making you choke down a heavy sob threatening to rip its way past the lump in your throat, watching as your horse unknowingly grazed on the field of grass and flowers in front of you, as you'd gone out to Lake Owanjila as a final resting place if your body was even found. You walked up to her side, patting her back whilst whispering some form of thanks and 'I love you', to which she happily snorted in response to, before fleeing her off with a light smack to her flank, a command she'd gotten used to after all the gunfights she'd rode you into and out of.

With a heavy draw of air in, you took your bowie knife into a shaky fist, the same knife Hosea had stolen for you off of some wagon transporting weaponry during your first year running with the gang. You pressed in until you felt the skin punctuate, the deep tear of flesh like ripping fabric as crimson red leaked up to the surface, trailing behind the clean line the knife left in your wrist; it all felt emotionally numb anyways. Using whatever strength you could muster in your cut hand, you repeated the action for your second wrist, your eyes already growing heavy with exhaustion, not only from how deep you'd cut, but the mere promise of an end to all of this pain and agony you were feeling for so long.

You weren't quite sure what happened, but just as soon as you'd passed out under the heavy stars hanging above you, you were finding your eyes slowly opening with a heaviness you'd never felt before, your arms aching like the first time you'd ever gotten shot. You were alive? Still? You had half a mind to reach for your pistol left on your nightstand, but when you glanced over for it, you saw it'd already been taken away by someone in camp; probably Dutch or Grimshaw. That's when you came to notice a figure sitting on a chair by your bed, Hosea, his jagged but light breathing a show to the fact that he'd been crying just moments ago. He didn't seem to notice you awake quite yet, though you couldn't quite tell if that was a blessing or if you wanted to focus on being mad at yourself for not only failing in your attempt to end it all prematurely but making his old heart grieve another painful loss that hadn't even come to fruition yet."

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