Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✥abuse✥

Trigger Warning: This depicts physical abuse and an unstable home life. If this could trigger you in any way, please do not read.

Your POV

I gently tap the foundation and powder onto my bruised skin. It doesn't work very well. The deep purple bruise on my left cheek still shows.

Usually he doesn't hit me in visible places. Not this time. Last night he was the angriest I've seen him in years, and I don't even know why.

I stare straight into my own eyes in my bathroom mirror. I have to go to school like this. I can't stay home and be with my father all day, I'm too scared of what he'll do to me. If I wear my hair just right, I can cover it. Nobody needs to know.

Walking out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, I grab a hoodie and throw it on, pulling the hood up. That should hide it too. I walk over to the floor-length mirror in my bedroom and pull up the hoodie, examining my torso.

The bruises line my ribcage, and they are also turning a deep purple color. I sigh and delicately drop the hoodie. I don't want to look at my body right now.

I can't even remember why he hit me last night. He was drunk; I can remember the thick smell of vodka on his breath. But I don't remember why he was angry in the first place. I grab my backpack and swing in over my shoulder, thankful that at least there is no damage there. In the mirror by our front door I double check that my face is covered by my hair and the hood, and leave.

***

Fuck senior year. I can't do this anymore. I'm so ready to get out of this stupid high school. I slide into my seat in AP Calculus, and wait for Timmy to come. Luckily, we have this class together.

We've been friends since we were five, and he's stuck with me through everything. When my mom died, he was there for me every step of the way. There's just one thing: he doesn't know about the physical abuse from my father. I haven't told a soul about it. I don't know why. I know it's wrong, and that he should be in prison, and that I could easily fix it for myself. It feels like I'm lying to Timmy's face on days when I'm black and blue under my clothes. I just can't bring myself to admit it. It's harder than it seems.

He walks into the classroom and sits next to me.

"Y/N what's up?" he says with his cute grin.

"Oh nothing. I don't wanna do this," I say, gesturing at the practice problems written on the board.

He scrunches his face.

"Gross," he says.

"Yeah."

"Can you hang out tonight? It's Friday - The Ritual is open late," he says. The Ritual is our favorite café, and on Friday nights they have live music.

"Sure." It will be good to stay away from my father for a while.

AP Calc is unbelievably boring. It's a double period today, so we're working on problems for almost two hours.

"I literally can't do this anymore," I say, sitting back in my chair and shoving my paper away from me.

"I know. I'm bored," he says. I absentmindedly reach over to grab my backpack and put the work away, intending to finish it as homework over the weekend. I tuck my hair behind my ear, and my hood falls as I slide the paper into my folder and grab my book from my backpack.

I look back at Timmy and grin.

"So, The Ritual tonight. That should be fun. Who's playing?" I ask. He's looking at me with a slightly alarmed gaze, his eyebrows furrowed. He slowly reaches a hand out toward me, and grazes his fingers lightly against my cheek. Panic floods through me and I flinch away from his touch, shoving my hair back over my face and tugging my hood back up. I don't say anything, but turn back to my desk and start reading my book. I don't actually read, I just stare at the page hoping he doesn't say anything.