Nightwing Oneshots

Garfield

Garfield's POV

⚠️Mentions/Depictions of Self Harm | Depression | Anxiety | Mentions of Death | Mental Health Struggles | Physical Pain⚠️

I closed the door as gently as I could behind me, and after I heard it click, I let out a long sigh and dragged my hands down my face, leaning against the door. My body ached and my eyes drooped with tiredness, but I couldn't sleep no matter how many pills I took. 

I glanced down at my exposed wrist in the faint light of the moon. My mind drifted to the pocket knife sitting somewhere in my nightstand drawer, and the memory of Dick showing me his scarred wrists and warning me not to start, ever. 

I found myself slowly making my way towards my bed and sitting down before opening my drawer and beginning to rummage through all the junk in there. Abruptly, my hand hit a hard, metal object and I lifted it out of its place, admiring it in the faint moonlight.

"Gar, this is what happens if you start," he said, rolling up his sleeve and showing me the hundreds of pale scars on his wrist. I just stared silently at it. "Once you start, you can't stop. It just gets worse and worse until you're past the point of no return. Sometimes you'll be good for a while, but then it'll hit you so hard you can't help but do it again. I don't want this happening to you, Gar."

"What if... it happens?" I asked quietly, not wanting to make eye contact with him. 

"Come get me if you ever feel like you're going to," he said, and I could hear the genuinity in his voice. "If I'm not here, call me. I know better than most people how this works. If you don't feel comfortable with that, at least tell somebody. I don't want you walking down the same path as me, Gar."

I glanced at my phone charging on the top of the table. 2:44, it read. I didn't want to be a bother. It was the middle of the night. Everyone had better things to do than care about what I was doing with my body. 

I pressed my thumb into the button and the knife sprung out: new, clean, tempting. I held it up in front of my face before lowering it to my wrist. My heart started racing and my hands started shaking. Why was I crying? This was what I wanted. Nobody cared. Nobody cares.

Without another thought, I pressed it hard against my skin and jerked it across my wrist, wincing at the pain and dropping the knife, barely hearing it clatter to the floor. My vision blurred in and out of focus as my heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears. I faintly saw the dark red leaking out of my wrist and sliding down and around my arm. 

"Shit," I mumbled, feeling tears start falling down my face. "Shit, shit, shit, shit..."

My breathing turned ragged as I stumbled to my feet, making my way to my door and out of my room, holding my limp hand with my other one as I staggered down the hallway to the stairs. I could barely contain my sobs as I stopped at the top of the stairs, squeezing my eyes shut and covering my mouth to suppress my cries. I crouched down and ran my hands through my hair, feeling lightheaded.

"...Gar-?" a faint voice asked. 

I didn't even look up to see who it was; all I could do was sit at the top of the stairs and cry. I heard a faint thumping, thump thump thump, before two hands gently grabbed my biceps and hawled me to my feet, wrapping me in a tight, secure hug. I began bawling into their shoulder, trying to say that I was sorry but I couldn't get any words out. My entire body was trembling as I grasped their shirt tightly, trying to bring myself closer to them. If I let go, everything would collapse. 

They didn't say anything; they just held me tightly in their arms. I had a feeling they knew they didn't need to say anything for me to understand that they were going to protect me. I felt safe. I hadn't felt this safe, or cared for, in a long time.