Long Series About Timothee Chalamet

Hayloft (p1)

Warnings - death, trauma, flashback, anger, PTSD, mentions of self harm, alcoholism, supernatural, panic attack, mentions of smut, desire to be pregnant, mentions of  physical abuse.

Dream

He hadn't removed himself from me after he came. We still lay naked in the hay. He was caressing my face, and I knew we both secretly hoped I'd get pregnant, that might be a helpful ticket out.

"You're so incredibly lovely my girl," he said, and bent down to place a kiss on my breast.

"I love you Timothée," I whispered.

"I've got good news," he said as he traced my nipple with his long finger. I squirmed slightly, trying to pay attention to what he was saying.

"Mr. Holbrook let me pick up extra hours, I think we'll be able to meet our goal by the seventeenth now, instead of the twenty seventh."

"Oh Timmy, that would be wonderful," I sighed.

"He hasn't found your to go bag has he?" He asked me worriedly.

"No, I keep him too drunk most of the time for him to know what's going on," I said, only feeling a little guilty for it.

"Doesn't that make the beatings worse," Timothée winced.

"Yes, but, I can deal with temporary pain as long as he doesn't discover us," I said.

"I don't like you being noble in that way," Timothée said darkly.

"Don't think on it love," I said, kissing his cheek. "Think about two weeks from now when it will just be you and me."

Screams, and blood, and tears were all I knew next. I awoke from the dream panting as I always did. I wished I could carve the memory from my head like I sometimes carved wounds into my wrists when the memories got too invasive.

My dingy apartment was still dark, but I decided I'd get up early for work. I didn't want to sleep anymore. I went over to the sink to brush my teeth.

I looked horrible in the artificial bathroom light. It gave me nearly green undertones. My hair was a bedraggled mess, and bags clung to my eyes. I didn't look good, I certainly didn't look only twenty five. I looked as though I'd lived eons, like one of those immortal witches. Of course, when had I looked good or healthy since that day?

I examined the marks on my wrist from last night's panic attack. They weren't all that deep. I dabbed some concealer on them, knowing work wouldn't care anyway, and at my second job it'd be too dark to tell.

I went over to my dresser. I bit my lip at the sight of Timothée's graduation picture. Forever immortalized as 18. I bit the inside of my cheek willing the flashes not to come. Timothée's scream, my father's bellow, my begging, and blood, so much blood.

I dove for the bottom drawer of my dresser. I'd heave to deal with a headache all day but if it numbed the pain at all, I could make do. I knocked back a couple shots.

I proceeded to get ready like a robot being given codes to follow. Comb hair, deodorant, clothing that doesn't smell putrid, out the door, to the subway, walk the short block, into the diner.

Soon, I had on my apron and was mechanically taking orders. I smiled at the old grimy man who flirted with me, I chatted with the teen girls who giggled at me behind my back, I talked loudly for the little old lady who was hard of hearing. It was all a mask, all a big facade.

"Hey girly," Marsha said. I nodded slightly.

"You look down, well more down than usual if that's possible."

"My dad has a parole hearing soon, they're going to contact me," I said blandly.

"I didn't know your daddy was in jail," she said. I nodded, unwilling to tell the story.

"Well, I hope he gets out for your sake."

I wanted to open my mouth and say what I truly wished was that he'd burn in the pits of Hell. I wanted to scream at her that he had stolen my life and murdered it in our back yard. I wanted to slam every person in here up against the wall, or hold them hostage with a gun while I told them all about the demon of a father I had, and how he had taken my angel. I didn't say anything though, my energy was being spent on trying not to have a panic attack. I held my hand to the locket I constantly wore, tracing the letter "T", and breathing in and out slowly.

The morning shift went fast, it was when I went to my second job at the bar, that things started to drag. I enjoyed the monotony of filling drinks and passing them out, but so many people here reminded me of myself. I took secret swigs of the drinks when no one looked. I noticed the dead eyes of a particularly young looking man. I wondered what his sorrow was, and I gave him an extra drink, on my tab. He looked as thankful as a wretch like us could look, and downed it in one go.

By the time I got home, my body felt heavy. The shower I took burned my fresh cuts. I didn't mind, physical pain reminded me I could still feel anything other than mental anguish. I put out some dry food for the stray cats that liked to visit my back door.

I dreaded answering the call I knew I'd be getting. I picked it up anyway, and heard the dull voice of the parole hearing scheduling agent.

"Is this y/n y/l/n," the voice asked.

"Yes."

"I'm calling on behalf of Gene Y/L/N, he is requesting your help for his upcoming parole hearing," the operator spoke.

"Tell her you want to help," came a voice. I whirled around at the sound. My phone clattered to the ground. A transparent, grey, figure stood before me.

His hair was longer, and his face more mature. However, he still had the same soft eyes, the long, gangly, legs, the sweet bouncy curls, and the high, noble cheekbones. He was looking at me as though he were beholding an angel.

"Timothée," I gasped.