Luke:
Taking a deep breath through gasps and tears, you tore through your room, pulling out the razor blade you hid between some books.
Do I dare? You asked yourself, it’s been so long.
Another tear rolled down your cheek and you rolled up your sleeve, holding the blade between your fingers.
Before you could give another second thought, you trailed the blade down your skin, just barely avoiding the veins. This wasn’t about killing yourself; it was to feel the pain; to control something in your life. To be in charge for once.
Wisps of red followed each line drawn into your wrists, little droplets forming and falling onto the ground along with your tears. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, everything numb.
You didn’t notice Luke in the room until he was ripping the blade from your hands and grabbing your shoulders, your arms, your face.
“No no no! Why? (Y/n) why would you do this?” He asked you shakily, grabbing a nearby shirt off the floor and wrapped it around your bleeding arm.
You couldn’t breathe, your throat seemed to close every time you tried to speak.
Luke held you, the both of you crying into each other.
“How long?” he asked after a few moments.
“I can’t remember…”
“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.”
“We need to get you help, (Y/n). I can’t let you hurt yourself. You’re too important to me,” he said, rubbing your back gently.
“I know. I’m sorry,” you managed.
He didn’t say anything else, he just held you there.
Ashton:
Too deep. Not deep enough. It was all a blur in your mind; nothing seemed to be right. No matter how hard you tried, everything was wrong. Line after line, a new cut was torn into your skin. One. Two. Three. Four. More more more. Deeper. Pain. Control. Breathe.
You lost control.
A vein.
Blood everywhere.
More than usual.
No.
You felt your brain grow dizzy, foggy. You couldn’t think straight.
Ashton.
You stumbled over to your phone, mixing up the numbers.
Ringing.
Ringing.
“Hello?”
Thank you. “Ashton… help… please. I’m not…”
“(Y/n)? (Y/n)! What’s going on?”
Dizzy.
“Quick…”
Darkness.
Quiet.
Peace.
Comfort.
Free.
Lights.
Noise.
Rush.
Yelling.
You opened your eyes, blinking at the brightness. You were in a bed, unfamiliar.
He was there, sitting in a chair opposite to you, his head buried in his hands.
“Ashton?” your voice croaked.
His head shot up.
“Oh god, (Y/n).”
He came over to your side.
“(Y/n)… you… you cut… you were unconscious… if you hadn’t called… (Y/n) you could have died,” he had been crying.
