TMR Imagines and Preferences

Self Harm Part 1

***TRIGGER WARNING*** Please take care of yourselves darlings

Thomas- After another day of running the mazes, you collapse next to Thomas just as the doors begin to close. The Glade is beginning to quiet down for the day, as the boys gather around the bonfire and pass around jars. Just like yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that, neither you nor Thomas find anything new. The patterns in the walls never change, but today you made a nearly fatal mistake. Thomas had made it out of the maze early, but you had been careless and twisted your ankle when turning a corner. You limped along for the rest of the day in the maze, but it wasn't fast enough. Thomas ran back into the maze, searching every corridor until he found you sweating and in pain. After arguing and wasting more precious time, you finally let him carry you back to the Glade. When the both of you made it to the last corridor, you could see the doors beginning to close. The two of you began to run together hand in hand, and made it out seconds before the doors sealed.

You can hear Thomas's ragged breaths next to you, and guilt surges through your veins. He had made it out early, and should have been showering and relaxing after running the maze all day, but he came back for you. He didn't have to, but he did, and your recklessness put him in danger. Of course, Thomas would say it was an accident, and that he would have come back for you no matter what, but that didn't stop the remorse you felt. The Glade murmurs with the sound of nighttime, darkness settling in. Thomas gets up trying to suppress a moan, and pulls you up beside him. He presses a kiss to your sweaty temple, and then puts your arm around his shoulder to help you back to the Homestead. Clint wraps your ankle with cloth and then cuts off the extra with a small pair of scissors. Your eyes follow them to a back cabinet, and you make plans to sneak in later. Thomas begs you to come to the bonfire, but you hang back. Something inside of you tells you that you shouldn't go, that you would only put him in more danger.

There is a familiar feeling in your heart, it's as if it is filled with lead and sinks further down every second. Even though you have no memories of when the lines on your wrist got there, you remember how. Clint and Jeff left the med-jack hut with Thomas, leaving all the medical supplies to your disposal. You walk into the hut, wincing when the door creaks. Looking across the Glade, none of the boys notice, so you proceed. You go directly to the back cabinet and sift through a box of cloth scraps until you find the scissors at the bottom. Slowly, you wrap your fist around the cold metal, and tiptoe over to the table in the middle of the room. Once you have hoisted yourself onto the table, you push up your sleeve. Nearly all of the lines have faded to thin white whispers, but you are eager to make new ones; punishing yourself for your mistake seems to be the only option. Slowly at first, you drag the dull blade over your pale skin, cursing when it doesn't make a clean cut. You push the blade down harder and harder, until a thin line of blood beads on your wrist. Faster you pull the scissors over your skin, and a single tear runs down your face.

Thomas deserves someone better. Someone who isn't a klutz. Someone who can take care of themselves and not have to rely on him. You aren't anything without him, he is the only thing good in your life. Without him you are worthless... worthless....

When the blood running down your arm finally satisfies you, when the pain brings you close to passing out, you wash the scissors off in the sink and place them carefully back into the bin of cloths. Taking a few, you wrap them around your arm and secure them by pulling your sleeve back down. Back in your hammock, you let the rest of your tears fall down your cheeks. You can see the boys' silhouettes against the fire. You can see Thomas, his thick brown hair absorbing the firelight, joking with Minho and dancing horrendously with Chuck around the fire. The slight smile this causes only stops the tears, but the blood on your arm still soaks the bandages, just beginning to fleck your shirt sleeve. Unaware, you drift to sleep with the dried tears on your face, and nightmares running around your head.