5SOS Book of Imagines

MASHTON // Cuts (2)

There she was. Perfect and sweet and beautiful.

And here you were. Messed up and awful and gross.

No wonder Ashton likes her.

The worst part of it though, was the fact that she was nice. She wasn't bitchy or fake, she was genuinely nice and that made you angrier because you couldn't get mad at her.

As she walked closer you couldn't help but feel bad about yourself, she was the living reason why Ashton doesn't like you the way you like him; you weren't beautiful, you weren't her.

"Hi, babe!" Ashton cheerfully greets her while sitting next to you as she sits. The three of you were in a café for their date.

God knows how much you wanted to bail, to not see them being sweet but Ashton insisted, thinking you might cut again if he leaves you alone. Knowing yourself you most probably would.

Five minutes later and you couldn't take it anymore. You abruptly stood up, disturbing Ashton and his girlfriend being sickly sweet. They looked at you in alarm so you softened your features so you wouldn't get suspected of what you were really feeling—jealousy.

"I, uhh, I'll just go look at some books over there," you say, pointing to a corner in the café where there was a huge bookshelf and some carpets and little pillows in front of it to read on. You took your frappe and went.

Miss Peregrine's was the first thing you see and quickly you took it from the shelf and sat on the carpet to read.

A few pages later and still, nothing registers in your mind in what you were reading because in the corner of your eye you see Ashton and his girlfriend, laughing and having fun.

"Dammit," you close the book, completely distracted now, put it in your lap and started squeezing your wrist by your bracelets, by your fresh scars.

You gasped as you felt the pain, but afterwards sighed as it clouded your mind. This was better, you thought. Better than feeling the stab of pain in your chest when you see them together. Physical, tangible pain is better.

"Your wounds would get infected that way, you know?"

You jumped in surprise as a voice says, close to your ear.

Suddenly there was a lanky, platinum blond-haired guy seated next to you, a knowing look on his face.

You raise your eyebrows at him in question.

"Your scars, I mean. That's what you were doing, right? Squeezing them open? How fresh are they?" he said with nothing but curiosity in his eyes.

Your eyebrows shot up even more as he guessed it right.

"Here, see?" he held up his left arm, showing around more than ten or so bracelets that completely covered his left wrist. "I keep my bracelets clean and sterilized and I recommend that you do, too."

"You—um, cut, too?" you were taken aback by his willingness and the detached tone he used to refer to his cuts—like they were normal, like they weren't a big deal.

"Well, yeah, but I don't just talk to random people about it, even the closest ones, really. I just figured it was easier telling you, seeing you're in the same situation. If anyone's gonna understand, it's gonna be you."

"Oh, r-right," you answer, still a bit hesitant.

"I'm Michael, by the way," he offers his hand.

"Y/N." You take it and shake. He has a soft hand but a firm grip.

"Cool. Do you mind if I stay here, too and blabber?"

"Nah, you can stay," you say, because for some reason, you like listening to him talk.

Someone who understands. You look down to his bracelet-clad left arm, feeling like you've finally found a lost, broken soul like you. You look up to meet his eyes, but unlike your dead ones, his shone with life. It's like he was lost and broken but he was okay with it, completely fine with it.

As he started talking again about random things about himself, you watched and listened, wishing you could be like him. Be at ease with losing himself, at ease with breaking to pieces.