Could I please request one . Can it be that Michael finds you self harming and his reaction , you can go from there if you want xxx
Here it is, babe! I’m sorry that I’ve been slacking on requests lately, but I’m trying to get through some this week! I hope you like it xx
PSA: I’m not romanticizing or promoting self harm in any way, shape, or form. It’s unfortunately something that a lot of people go through, though, and I don’t think that not talking/writing about it is doing anyone any good. If anyone ever needs someone to talk to, my inbox is open!
TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm and blood
“Just one more,” you whisper to yourself as you slide the razor blade across your wrist.
Tears are falling down your face, but your mind is too numb to register them. All that you can feel right now is the pain, and it feels good. Cutting yourself started out as a way to rid yourself of the numbness, but over the years, it’s slowly evolved into an unhealthy coping mechanism. Any time you have a bad day or something doesn’t go right, you immediately start craving the blades. It’s like your version of Heroin.
Your boyfriend, Michael, knows about your habit, well… he knows some of it. He caught a glimpse of your scar-covered arm once when your sleeve slid up your arm. He understandably got very upset and demanded to know why, but you honestly couldn’t tell him. Instead, you lied and told him that it was something you used to do, but have gotten over. You told him that it had been years since the last cut, and he was all too willing to believe that.
You hiss slightly when the blade goes a bit deeper than you’d intended. Immediately, the piece of metal falls from your hand and you clamp your fingers down over the wound. You’re not so much worried about bleeding out as you are about leaving blood stains somewhere in the bathroom. You’re in the apartment that you and Michael share, and the last thing you need is for him to start getting suspicious again.
“(Y/N)?” Your boyfriend’s voice calls as he knocks on the door. “You okay?”
You scramble to pick up the blade and put it back in your makeup bag, aka the one place that Michael would never dare to look. You then grab a towel from the cabinet under the sink and place it over your bleeding arm.
“I’m fine,” you answer, trying to make your voice sound confident. “I’ll be out in a minute, I’m just not feeling well.”
The door handle jiggles, and you are suddenly very glad you’d decided to lock the door. Michael wasn’t even supposed to be home for another half hour, but you can never be too safe.
“Can I come in?” He asks, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.
“Um,” you stutter. “N-not right now. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Well, the last part was the truth. If he finds out about this, he’ll never be able to love you. He’ll realize how unworthy you are, and he’ll leave you.
“Like what?” He asks. “Babe, you’re scaring me. Just open the door.”
You don’t answer. Instead, you focus on your wrist that is still bleeding worryingly fast. You hadn’t realized how deep the cut actually was, and it could be dangerous if you don’t stop the blood soon. You hear something from outside the door and your eyes go wide when you realize that Michael is picking the lock. It’s something the boys taught him, and he has never had any reason to do it until now.
You don’t have time to hide your mess before the door bursts open and Michael is standing a few feet away from you. The worry on his face turns to horror when he sees all of the blood, and then fear washes over him. He drops to his knees beside you and cradles your injured arm in his hands.
“What did you do?” He whispers, tears falling down his face. “There’s so much… blood…”
“Michael,” you whimper. “I’m okay. It’s nothing.”
“This,” he says, pointing to the blood soaked towel on your arm. “Is not nothing. How could I have been so stupid? How did I not see this?”
You’re at a loss for words. You thought he’d be mad at you, or maybe just disgusted, but you never imagined he’d be angry with himself.
He moves the towel off of your wrist and gasps at the sight. There are hundreds of cuts littering your skin, some months old, and some as recent as a few days. There are also five new ones, including the one that appears to have punctured a vein.
“I- I need to take you to the hospital,” he says mechanically, his eyes never leaving your wrist.
“What?” You yell, jerking your arm away from him. “No! You can’t! I promise I’ll stop, just don’t take me to a hospital!”
The panicked look in your eye only breaks his heart even more. He doesn’t want to make you mad, but right now your health is more important than your feelings toward him.
“Please?” He begs, gently reaching his arms out toward you. “That cut is deep and it’s bleeding really fast. I’m scared as hell, (Y/N), a-and I don’t know what to do.”
His voice starts to crack, and you can hear the pure terror in his tone. He really is worried about you. This is why you hadn’t wanted him to find out. You didn’t want to be the cause of so much pain.
“Please,” he begs again, his voice just as whisper.
The heartbreak on his face finally convinces you to agree. You know that the doctors are going to want to give you some kind of psychological evaluation, but you’ve lied your way through more than one of those before. You know exactly how to answer the questions in order to get people off your back.
You start to stand up, but Michael scoops you up in his arms instead. He tells you to hold the towel to your arm, and you do. You put as much pressure as you dare without causing yourself too much pain.
He carries you to the car and quickly drives you to the nearest emergency room. He brings you inside, and thankfully, no one looks at you like you’re insane. That was the main thing that scared you about telling Michael in the first place. You were worried he would never look at you the same.
A nurse whisks you away from your boyfriend, and he quickly promises that he’ll be right by your side as soon as they let him. She takes you back to a room and immediately begins cleaning your wounds and putting bandages on them. She skillfully stitches up the one that’s causing most of the damage, and then puts a bandage over it as well.
As expected, she starts asking you some psychological questions. They seem innocent enough, but you know that she’s trying to get a read on you. You answer them as best you know how, and she seems satisfied that you’re not going to have a mental breakdown and kill yourself or someone else.
She leaves, and a few minutes later, Michael bursts into the room. He still has a steady stream of tears falling down his pale face, and when he sees you, he breathes a sigh of relief. Even those few minutes that you weren’t in his sight had scared him half to death. He can’t imagine ever losing you.
“Michael,” you say, trying to come up with some sort of explanation.
He just shakes his head and walks over to the bed where you’re sitting. He crawls into it with you and pulls you into a laying position with his chest against your back. He gently rubs his fingers up and down your side, his breaths hot on your neck.
“We don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I love you so much, (Y/N), and I’m sorry that I didn’t realize what was going on sooner. But I promise we’re going to get you the help you need, and I will be right by your side every step of the way. I’m not losing you. Not now, and hopefully not ever.”
His words bring a smile to your face, and your entire body relaxes. He’s not leaving you. He doesn’t think you’re crazy.
“I love you too, Michael,” you whisper.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
2087