911/911 Lone Star One Shots

Midnight In Austin

TW: drug use, addiction, self-harm, suicidal thoughts

The lyrics from Bailey Zimmerman's song 'Between a Rock and a Hard Place' helped to inspire this:
That's when I lost it
Midnight in Austin
And damn I'm exhausted, what the hell's this all for?

TK was in a bad place. Everybody could see it, but nobody knew how bad of a place it truly was. Everybody feels down some times, they weren't going to freak out and assume he'd relapse because of it or anything. They trusted him to ask for help when he needed it. Of course, TK wouldn't do that. He could handle a little depression. He was fine.

Carlos was worried, of course, but he couldn't be with him 24/7. As he got ready for a shift, TK was in bed. Carlos came in and sat on the edge before he had to leave and laid his hand on TK's cheek.

The touch grounded him, bringing him back from a zoned-out, dissociated state.

"You gonna be okay tonight, baby?" Carlos asked him, his other hand running through TK's messy hair lovingly.

TK nodded. Of course he would be. He could handle himself. He didn't need help.

Carlos wasn't sure he believed him but he had a shift; he had to go. "Will you promise to call someone if you need anything? Your dad, Judd, Marjan, just... someone?"

TK hesitantly nodded again, knowing he wouldn't be keeping that promise. He didn't want to burden anyone.

"Okay. I love you so much, cariño." He kissed him softly before getting up and heading out the door.

As soon as TK was alone, he was back to feeling suffocated by the urge. He knew the high that opioids would bring him and the relief it would be from the depression he'd sunken into. No. No, no, no, he can't.

He shook his head, trying to shake the urge from his brain. No, no, no, no, no. He screamed internally, but the urge wasn't going anywhere. It'd been creeping under his skin for days and now that he was alone, it was overwhelming.

No. He didn't want to break his sobriety. Maybe something else would help. Cutting. It wouldn't give him the high of opioids, but maybe it would help relieve the urge.

He got out of bed and went to get the box cutter from where it was abandoned in the kitchen drawer after they moved in. Once it was in his hand, he couldn't stop himself or even think to be discreet.

He immediately brought it to his wrist, pulling it across his skin and sighing in relief at the feeling. It wasn't his first time cutting; he used to utilize it as a way to lessen the urge until he could get his hands on more pills.

He closed his eyes and swiped the box cutter across his skin over and over again, not thinking, just relishing in the relief each cut brought.

When he finally reopened his eyes, he dropped the box cutter. His entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, was dripping in blood. Too much blood. He grabbed a wad of paper towels and held them to the wounds, knowing at least one of them was probably a bit too deep.

He was bleeding too much. He cut in a highly visible location. People would see. Nobody would trust him. It was too much. The relief the cuts had brought was long gone now.

The cutting had helped lessen the urge to use momentarily but the consequences of it was sending him into a spiral that he knew a high would help soothe.

That's it. He needed something. He couldn't take being stuck in his head anymore and getting high would make it stop for a bit. He just needed a break.

He began to hastily make a bandage for his arm, deciding to deal with it later. He held more paper towels to it and used duct tape to secure it tightly in place.