JJ Maybank Imagines

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Trigger warning ⚠️ self harm

Friday, July 30, 2021. 12:56 AM.

I sat alone in my room, listening to the hurtful words in which my own father was yelling at me. Hot tears streamed down my face and dropped into my lap, leaving wet stains on my grey sweat pants.

I need to leave. It's the only thing I can think of at this moment. Being in this house, surrounded by bad memories and abusive parents? It's not okay. I can't stay here anymore.

Within the next few minutes, I have a bag packed and ready to go. Now, all I have to do is figure out where the fuck I'm supposed to stay. I'm not too worried about where I'll end up. Anywhere that isn't here is good enough for me.

"You're a piece of shit, Y/n!" The loud voice of my father reached my ears. "I fucking hate you!" I cringe at his words, slinging my bag over my shoulder and climbing out my window. I know he won't see me leaving, the living room window points to the other side of the house.

So I wipe the tears away from my cheeks and begin walking aimlessly through the streets of The OuterBanks. I don't need him. I've never needed him. His words don't affect me. 

I keep telling myself endless lies to feel better about my situation. But nothing I say will make it hurt any less. My own father wants me dead. And it's all I can think about.

I fucking hate you! Four words that shatter my heart repeatedly. Tears begin flowing down my face again, this time I'm too lazy to wipe them away. I let them trail down my cheeks and onto my neck, disappearing into the cotton sweatshirt I was wearing.

Those four fucking words shouldn't hurt as bad as they do. He never cared about me, so why should I be giving him the satisfaction of wasted tears? It makes me so frustrated. Why do I care so much about someone who never gave a shit about me?

I find myself walking along the beach now. Not knowing when I got here, just knowing that it's very quiet and peaceful. The only sounds I'm hearing are the tiny waves folding over onto the shore.

I stop walking when I find a beer bottle on the ground. One side of my brain is telling me to throw it out, reduce the litter on the beach. But the other side is telling me to throw it as hard as I can at the log, just to let som anger out. Obviously I go with the second option. Throwing it full force and watching as it shatters, leaving glass shards spread out in the sand.

I let out a strangled breath. "Fuck you." I sort of laugh and cry at the same time, scrunching my hair into fists and kneeling down in the sand. I find a piece of glass on the ground, the moonlight hitting it at a perfect angle to make it shine. It's a very sharp piece of glass. It would definitely have no problem breaking through skin if I wanted it to.

I pick the piece of glass up, running my finger along the sharpest edge and watching as blood pools at the top of my finger. I sigh, feeling a sort of relief when I see that I can still bleed. It's a weird thought to have, I know. But sometimes I feel as though I am not real. Because clearly my well being does not matter enough to my father. Seeing blood makes me aware that I am a real person.

A second though crosses my mind that has me glancing down at my wrist. I've heard that it takes less than 10 minutes to bleed to death if you cut your wrist deep enough. Now that I'm thinking of it, it doesn't seem so bad. Death, I mean. It's not like I have anywhere else to go. I'm practically dead already.