Natasha Romanoff/Scarlett Johansson x Daughter One Shots

Just in case (S.J)

yooooooooooooo

guys. im so sorry but i dont have any ideas for the i just wanted a mom p2 so im not gonna write that until i get an idea. im so so so so so so sorry about it but my mind is literally blanking

TW: self harm, suicide, death

if you guys EVER need to talk im here because you are all important and amazing and wonderful and it's perfectly okay to need help

not proofread cuz its 2 am

It's the little things you notice, only after you realize you're slipping. 

Gradually, you spend less time with friends and more time alone. You feel tired all the time, even if you've been sleeping all day. 

There's a phase when you tell yourself that you're fine. It's not depression, it can't be. You're just tired, it's just a rough patch, you'll get better. 

And you tell yourself this because you have to be fine. For yourself, for your friends, for your family. You have to stay, be in the moment, be happy, no matter how hard it is. 

Only when it's staring right in front of you, when that knife is in your hand and you have that sinking feeling in your stomach, you know it's back. Or that it was never really gone. 

These thoughts play in my head every time. Today, I'm six months clean. But I didn't wake up today, and feel proud of myself. I was exhausted. So, so exhausted of the long months it took to finally get here.

How many nights did I fall asleep sobbing? How many times did Mom have to physically restrain me so I wouldn't cut myself? Did I actually deserve this, or am I just playing this role for Mom? Am I actually here, mentally, or am I going through the motions again?

Mom's away, I told her she deserved a night to herself. With her friends, instead of at home with her sixteen year old daughter, like she always is. 

I told her I could handle it. I told her I needed to breathe, to feel normal. 

I thought I was telling the truth.

There's these blue scissors in my hand. I took them from school a few months ago. Mom doesn't know about it, of course-everything I could use to hurt myself is locked away-but I kept these. 

Just in case, I told myself. It's only for emergencies.

Does this count as an emergency? Probably not, but I'm still standing here with these stupid blue scissors. 

The last time I relapsed, I told Mom a week later. She said that whenever I got that feeling again, I should always, always come to her. No matter what. 

She made me promise I would. 

I don't know what to do. I mean, I know what I should do, what the right thing to do is. Which is, drop these fucking scissors and go call Mom. 

 These scissors, I gave them this fucking power over me. The same way I gave that knife with the orange handle that power. 

These goddamn scissors have been taunting me ever since it got bad again, three months ago. I swear, I promise I tried to shove those thoughts out of my mind, but it got so fucking hard and now here I am.