IMAGINES | travis kelce + taylor swift (1)

18.1 | the facade (tw)

TRIGGER WARNING: SCENES OF SELF HARM, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.

Requested | boris344444

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[TRAVIS]

Don't. You. Dare. I scolded myself, still of temptation, an agitation so debilitating, one that I not often could defeat. It defeated me. We're not doing this again, Travis.

I shift onto my side, shuffling the sheets above my head. My Taylor, so peacefully asleep, soft snores buzzing into my abdomen. I was so grateful that I could call this masterpiece of a woman mine, though I could never quite comprehend what such a soft, delicate, though undoubtedly perfect, universally known pop-star desired anything to do with me. But, somehow, some trait of mine attracted her loved towards me, gravitating her closer to me each day we were together.

I relocated myself to the center of the mattress, needled that I couldn't find myself comfortable. At this point, I was so tired that I was hysterical. Delirious, even. Covers on, but then I push them to the foot of the bed. I lie on my side, curled into a ball, cradling Taylor, but then I drift too far into a winding discomfort with myself that couldn't be articulated--I just felt like that wasn't where I belonged. I engage my eyelids with one another, but not for long until that stupid urge comes floating from one side of my brain to the other. I'm starting to accept that, once again, this train of thought will run me off the tracks. Sighing, I throw my legs over the bed, padding to the bathroom down the hallway.

I locked the door behind me, sliding down the door. Shivers shedded up my limbs as they came in contact with the chilled tiles of the marble tiles that made up the bathroom floor. My knees drawn up to my knees, and I stared blankly at a cobweb in the corner between the bathtub and toilet, a dead spider attached to it.

Damn, if only I could be that spider, my mind wandered. No, Travis. Not this again.

I forced a more relieving concept into my head, like Taylor. Football and the game ahead of my days, my mother, Jason, Aric. Whatever my process of thought puttered upon, that thought never failed to follow closely behind. I had the slightest idea regarding the reason behind why I felt this way, or thought of these things. I was happy with my life. Well, satisfied with the circumstances dealt. It was myself I wasn't happy with, myself that I could not stand. I tried to pinpoint those specific features of myself so I could change them and become more comfortable with them, but over the years, I've accepted that it's every inch of my body, every aspect of my mind. I can not stand any of it.

A clicking from the A/C vent startled me, sitting me straight up. I hugged my bare knees, allowing my head to fall into my lap. I was so tired I couldn't think straight. I glared the dim room, skimming over the objects that made its figure. My vision caught onto the objects of the linen closet, coasting along folded towels and other bathroom-like things that weren't out of the ordinary. Anything that could beg my mind on something other than these growing urges would suit me. It sort of was travailing for a short minute or so, until my eyes dropped too far down and I was left to witness a bag of disposable razor blades.

Damn it.

Don't think about it.

A embraced a thick gulp of air, begging that an initiative would distract me from the taunting image. I tried blinking the picture elsewhere—somewhere far, far away. I should just avoid everything in here and climb back in bed with Taylor, but I can't be in the same room as her when I'm like this. A sheer slate of guilt plasters my entire soul. If I'm not careful, I will lose my temper all together, and she'll be the unspoken target. Then, she'll need to leave me because she can't handle my hysterical, depressive behavior—she shouldn't have to. This girl is so successful, so bold. She shouldn't be with me.