Peter Parker/Tom Holland Imagines {REQUESTS CLOSED}

Insecure - TH

This was the chapter I was talking about earlier. It's very sad, and very serious, so please, or you don't think you can handle it, or are going to not approach the subject with maturity, it's probably best to skip this chapter. Warning: attempted suicide, anxiety and depression, severe insecurity, self hate, etc.

So this is a topic I hold very close to my heart. I've struggled with mild depression for a while, but thankfully never gotten this far. Please, if anyone ever needs someone to talk to, my dms are always open. I love all of you, even without having met you😘 so read with caution, and be prepared. Also, super long.

I shut my eyes, gripping the countertop. Breathing in loudly, I sank against the cupboards, allowing my back to follow the smooth wood doors to the ground, the empty bottle of liquor falling next to me, the glass shattering into a million little pieces.

A single tear dripped down my cheek, slowly, as my breathing quickened, each intake shakier than the last. I hugged my shins to my chest, digging my fingernails into the area below my kneecap.

I reached up, grabbing the pill box full of sleeping pills that sat on the counter. I recalled the label on the bottle: don't consume more that two tablets in a 24 hour period; don't mix with heavy alcohol consumption. Nodding nervously, I opened the box.

Visions flashed through my eyes, one after another. Snow. Headlights. A crash. My mother's body. The crisp white hospital waiting room. The Father throwing dirt back into the Earth. An empty whiskey bottle. And another one. My father, slurring. Thrashing. Tom. Tom.

Sighing, I shut the pillbox. For all the pain and hardships my life had known, it also knew Tom. The angel who loved me. Cared for me. My arms dropped to my side, lightly grasping the pills.

Standing up, I walked over to the bathroom, and put the pills back in the medicine cabinet. Grabbing a broom, I swept up as much glass as I could, tossing it into the bin. I had barely stumbled over to the bed when I collapsed, feeling the effects of the whiskey hit me hard.

It must've been much later when I felt a gentle shaking on my shoulder. Turning over, I faced my fiancé, who currently had a soft smile on his perfect face.

"Hey love," Tom said quietly, "Tired?"

I didn't answer, instead just cautiously got out of bed. So far, I didn't feel too woozy, but that feeling didn't last for long, as a wave of nausea came over me, sending me running towards the toilet.

"God. Are you alright?" Tom asked after me, reaching to pull my hair back.

"Mhmm," I nodded, keeping my eyes shut. "Just... just feel a bit sick." I said. So the whiskey was still hard in my system. "Let's just-let's just have dinner."

"Okay, yeah, whatever you want."

"So how was your day?" I asked him, trying to distract myself from the shame I felt.

"Fine. Y'know, same ol' same ol'." Tom shrugged, grabbing a plate for himself. "Oh shit!" He cried out suddenly, hand reaching for his foot.

"What?" I asked, resting a hand on his back. My heart raced in anxiety, as he looked up at me with a countenance of pain and hurt.

"I stepped on something. Glass maybe? Fuck. That hurt. Did something break?" I stared down at the spot his foot previously rested on. My eyes glanced up to the familiar cabinet that had just earlier hosted my sobbing body.

Flashbacks from the day overtook me.

I stared at my phone screen, unable to move from the dining table. The date. 08. 08. 2018. Exactly seven years from the day my mother died. Exactly seven years from the day my father changed completely. God. It was my fault. If I hadn't-