MARSH𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗢 | Theirs (BL)

🌼FIVE▫️▫️

MARSHMALO | THEIRS

Trigger warning:
•self-harm•
this chapter might be sensitive for other readers.

Thrashing around on the bed where the thirteen-year-old boy was strapped down, tears kept falling as he tried to cry out for help but couldn't because his mouth was taped. His svelte figure had no strength to break free, his chest heaved up and down, panting, crying, scared to death, and totally traumatized by this situation.

His parents were busy working throughout the whole day; they're only free on weekends. After weekends, the horrible and terrifying day starts.

Then he heard footsteps, making his heart pound harder so that he could hear it himself, muffling a cry as he tried to get the straps undone. As the footsteps grew heavier, they became louder and closer. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, shaking in fear; he couldn't endure this any longer. He wanted to run away but couldn't because of his state.

It's been going on for months, while his parents think that he's receiving nice treatment from the only man they trust—the man that Elliott thought he would be comfortable with, the man he thought would be okay to be with, the man he finally trusted. However, it turned out to be the man who exposed him to his darkest side, making him throw up. The man he never thought would be the one causing him to have nightmares, be traumatized, and scared to be left with him day and night.

"PLEASE STOP!!"

Elliott sprang out of bed, panting as he clutched his chest, sweating and scared. His hands trembled, and his mind couldn't shake off his nightmare. His pupils shook as he panted, looking around in the darkness, with only the moonlight shining through his open window. Glancing at his alarm clock, he saw it was 12:34.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he realized he couldn't sleep again. He was afraid he might dream about it once more. He wanted to call his mother so she could calm him down by singing her lullaby, but he didn't want to worry her.

He brought his palms to his face, rubbing it and wiping his tears away, sniffling as he lay down again. He always lay on his side because whenever he lay supine on the bed, it only reminded him of being chained or strapped, leaving him with a terrifying feeling. He didn't want to remember it anymore and he wished for that man to rot in jail.

He hugged his pillow tightly and buried his face in it. Breathing steadily, he finally calmed down and felt sleepy. But he didn't want to sleep again; he was scared, scared that he might dream about it again. Without thinking, he wriggled off the bed and went to his drawers. Underneath the layers of his clothes, there lay the only thing that could make him forget about it...

After experiencing trauma, he didn't know how this particular thing had become a habit. Whenever he did it, he always admitted to himself that he was probably not sane, yet he was also scared of himself.

Going to the bathroom, he turned on the light and made sure to lock the door. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and brought out his wrist to see the faint red lines on it. This had been happening since the day he finally escaped from the torture.

In his other hand, a cutter lay. He pushed it up to let the blade slide out from the cover.

He wanted to slap himself so badly. How could he make this his habit whenever he's depressed or scared? He was giving himself a bit of punishment for being a weak coward.