Long Series About Timothee Chalamet

Hayloft (P8)

Warnings - drug abuse, snorting meth, being high, talk of pregnancy, plans to murder, abusive parenting, physical abuse, attempted rape

Timothée and I were on a high of being able to spend half the day together. My father had gone to get his drugs, so naturally I was in the hayloft. I'd been around town a bit, loudly talking about how our car needed repairing, covering my father's tracks.

"If it's a girl, can we name it after my mom?" Timothée asked, slowly rubbing my stomach.

"Absolutely," I beamed.

"Any more success with your soul?" I asked.

"I get hungry now! Not as much as normal, but enough to be exciting," he said. I was glad I'd brought up some food with me.

"Mon Amor, please don't actually take any, even if he tries to force you," he begged.

"I've gotten pretty good at faking, and with how touchy he is, I don't want to be any sort of under the influence when I'm around him."

"You know I'm just a shout away right?" He said worriedly.

"I know baby."

"I have a present for you by the way," I beamed, and reached in my pocket. I pulled out a positive pregnancy test. His eyes widened.

"So it's official," he beamed.

"Yeah, we're pregnant!"

He folded me in his arms happily. He was kissing all over my face.

"How does this work with me being only partly here?" He asked.

"I'm not sure, I'm just excited to finish this damn thing and spend the rest of my life with you," I said. He nodded.

"Me too."

Later in the day my father came home. I made sure to steal some of the pills when he wasn't looking, so they could be in his system when he died.

"Let's party baby girl," he grunted. He crushed up several pills and split the dust between us. I pretended to snort while actually brushing the dust onto the floor. It mingled with other debris on the floor and wasn't noticeable.

"Holy fuck, that feels good!" My father nearly roared. The rest of the night was spent with me reassuring him of my love through attacks of paranoia. I basically disassociated, and just repeat the script I'd come up with for him.

Finally, he went to sleep, and I stayed in the house. I'd hidden my pregnancy test in the trash. Soon this would all be over and I'd never have to be in this house again.

I was awoken by intense pain. I opened my eyes to see my father, red faced, and livid.

"You fucking whore," he screamed, and his hand cracked against my face.

"What?" I asked, confusion in my voice, and tears in my eyes. He pulled tighter on my hair, the pain that had woken me up. He was dragging me by it, out to the kitchen. He must've woken up and hyperactively spilled the trash out. He shoved my face into the garbage where the positive pregnancy test was.

"You're a fucking slut! How did you even manage to get pregnant?"

"That's not mine," I lied.

"Who else's could it be? Do I look like I've got a womb," he demanded and kicked my side.

"Please, don't hurt me."

"All these lies, I thought you finally understood how things work around here!"

"I wasn't lying," I sobbed. "I love you, I got you out, I watched while you were high and took care of you."

He wasn't listening. His dirty wife beater heaved up and down with his chest. He was sweaty and greasy.

"Looks like I'm going to have to teach you a lesson," he said, and began taking off his pants. I stared in horror.

"Timothée!" I screamed.