Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❀why would you do this❀

DO NOT BREEZE OVER THIS TRIGGER WARNING.

Trigger Warning: This depicts graphic description of self-harm. I debated putting it online, but decided that bringing issues like this to the attention of those who do not suffer from them is important. However, please, please do not read this if you think that it could be triggering to you in any way. You can message me if you ever need to talk about anything. I've been through everything that I write about, whether it's myself or I've watched a friend go through it.

This is also my first request, and I know it's extremely dark, but I hope it's good. Thank you for reading.

Your POV

I need to feel something.

But you've done so well. You're two months clean from this.

No. I can't live with this deep numbness any longer. I need to feel something.

Don't do it. Remember why you stopped. Remember how long it took you to stop.

I'm going to do it.

Think of Timothée.

No.

The battle rages on inside my head as I internally process my actions. I am sitting on the floor of our bathroom, staring straight at my scarred wrists. All I want is a moment of relief, a moment of pain to remind me that I can still feel something other than emptiness.

Today was the hardest one that I've had in a while.

I jolt quickly over to the plastic drugstore bag on my left, pulling out the box of razor blades and opening it before I can change my mind. I hold the blade in my fingers running my fingertips along the sharp edge. It is cool to the touch.

Without much thought, I slowly bring it to my wrists and puncture the skin.

The pain is a euphoric reminder that I can still feel things. It is like a sigh of relief after holding in pent up anxiety.

When I finish, I am left with nothing but smooth lines. My blood beads against my skin, creating perfect, dark red drops.

Staring at what I've done, I gag. The metallic smell of my own blood fills my nose and I lean over the toilet, thinking I actually will throw up. When I don't, I slowly sit back against the wall. The throbbing pain in my wrists courses with each heartbeat. I can't help the hot tears that start streaming down my cheeks - I don't even know why they come. This feeling is just as good as I remember. I deserved this.

I let the blade clatter against the tile floor as I sit against the wall, tears still streaming down my face. I shut my eyes tight and try to breathe deeply.

The sound of our front door opening makes my eyes snap open, and I freeze. Timmy is home. I gather myself and start cleaning quickly. I begin by rummaging around and finding the large band-aids, which I secure around my wrists. I wash off the blade and throw it back in the plastic bag.

"Y/N? Where are you?" Timmy yells.

"Shit," I mumble, as I use a tissue to soak up the small drops of blood that escaped to the floor. I shove the plastic bag into the cabinet under the sink. I'll just have to get it later. I toss the tissue in the trash, make sure my eyes are wiped clean of tears, tug my sweatshirt down well over my wrists, and quickly swing the bathroom door open. He's standing in the living room, and he jumps back with a start at my sudden movement.

"Geeze. You startled me," he says with a grin. He strides over to me and gives me a long hug. "I missed you. How was your day?" he says over my shoulder.