I Don't Trust Myself (Tommyinnit angst)

Chapter 5 - The Stain

(a/n) hey you old farts. I am slowly deteriorating but that's okay. Also, recently I have been very motivational towards all my friends for no goddamn reason. I hope you all the best in life. N e wayz, hope you like this chapter and if y'all have any ideas about what you want me to write about, surely you will be kind enough to put your ideas in the comments so I can mooch content off of them. shlankies <3

TW: EATING DISORDERS, ANXIETY

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"Do my parents know?"

The doctor looked at me with fake sympathy in his eyes. "Yes, Thomas, we had to tell them about what we thought was happening."

My heart dropped into my stomach and I my vision was covered with dark spots. My vision cleared within a few seconds and I muttered something that must have insinuated that I wanted the doctor out of my room.

Deciding that now would be the perfect time to update my friends, as if they really cared, as I had promised them I would call them. I rung Wilbur's phone number, one of the only times I had used it, guessing he would be more likely to pick it up there. It rung three times, each bringing me closer to hope that he would not pick up. But, since nothing can ever go the way I want it to go in my life, Wilbur, of course, picked up on the fourth ring.

"Tommy! Are you okay! What happened?" Wilbur bombarded me with questions that made my head hurt. 

There was silence on the call as he awaited my response, warily.

I proceeded with my answers ever so diligently, trying to ease what really happened, even though I knew he didn't really care. He couldn't. He doesn't. No way.

"Yes Will, I'm fine. I was brought to the hospital where they helped me and I'm going to be fine." I finally answered, making sure to keep out the parts about me needing a therapist. All that would do is bring pity.

Wilbur sighed audibly, making me wonder why, since he obviously doesn't care for me or someone like me. "Good, Tommy, I don't want you to be hurt."

"Why?" I wondered, soon after realizing that I had talked aloud. 

"Why?," Wilbur asked in a disbelief ridden manner, almost taunting me on how stupid I was. No matter how much Wilbur seemed hint that I should know why, I had trouble stopping the curiosity of why he would care. 

"Tommy, you are my best friend. I obviously want you to be okay and I need you to understand that no matter what, I will always love you. You mean so much to me and it hurts me to think that you don't know why I don't want you to be hurt. Please, Tommy, please remember that you are wanted here and I need you." Wilbur quipped.

His response was so fast it seemed like he had wanted to get those words out for a long time. It didn't even sound rehearsed and the voices in my head made it hard to convince the logical part of my brain that he was lying. His response seemed so genuine that I was left speechless. 

I finally uttered a small thank you, only to be greeted with a siren further down my hall, someone on a speaker announcing a code blue. I told Wilbur that the siren was making my head hurt and I asked him if he could pass the message along to Techno. He agreed and we parted ways, if you can even do that whilst on the phone. 

I sat around for about ten minutes, some much needed time to myself, before my parents walked in with gentle looks on their faces. My mum sat down next to me in a rickety red chair while my dad stood at my left side. The tension in the room could be slaughtered like sheep, leaving a residue that would stain. My dad was the first one to talk.

"Toms," I cringed at the old nickname, "Did the doctors tell you anything of importance...or do we have to... you know..." he stuttered.

"He told me." I uttered under my breath in the slightest.

He nodded. "Okay Toms, I'm guessing you understand that you will be forced to go to a therapist to talk about what has been going on."

I nodded. This was probably the driest conversation even, but then again, what does one say to their son who is suicidal and anorexic, the list of conversation starters is small. I giggled under my breath at the thought and watched as my parents shared a concerned look. 

After a while, they finally left me with my thoughts and no sharp objects so they could go talk to the doctor about setting up the therapist and recommendations or something. 

Soon enough, my parents told me about taking my back home, but of course, I wasn't listening, so I'm not entirely sure what was really happening or what was just a figment of my imagination. 

I arrived home and went to my room, only to be greeted with a large, deep red stain on my carpet. It looked very crusty and when I put my socked foot over it, it seemed to convulse at the pressure I had applied to it. I soon realized that it was my very own blood. Fun.

Deciding that I was too tired to deal with this and after I kindly told my thoughts to fuck off, I shuffled over to my bed and laid there. Even though I hadn't done anything at the hospital except eat, I was still exhausted, mentally and physically. 

Maybe now would be a good time to contemplate what my feelings are. Why the fuck not, I mean, this story is all about me anyways.

Many people like to say that they have a little voice in their heads that tells them what to do. Some may even go as far as to describe and imitate what it sounds like. 

I'm different.

I don't have a voice in my head, I have thoughts. Degrading thought. Harmful thoughts. It's not a voice that says it. It's not always thoughts either. Some people's words ring in my head over and over again, constantly rattling my brain and convincing me to do things that are harmful. It could be the words of people I know, or people I am forced to read about in any stupid class-

Class.

School.

Work.

Shit. I probably have so much work that is due. And I have to stream. What an imbecile I am. Instead of making money or doing something for my future, I am being a horrible fucking person just by lying in my bed with no sense of reality. What makes me think that I have time to sit here and "contemplate my feelings?" Selfish bastard. I hate myself. I hate my actions. I need to do something. 

With my new sense of purpose, I rose from my bed onto unsteady feet. I teetered on my soles a little before pushing forward and reaching for my school bag, thinking that streaming would exert energy that I didn't have to spare. 

I pulled out my folder, accidentally sending some stray papers flying into the air from which they then floated slowly down to rest on the stain. 

Fuck.