Dan and Phil Imagines (Requests CLOSED!)

Cuts ↣ Dan {Requested}

You remain kneeling as you stare at the dresser drawer. It will be easy, you think, to just give up. Give in. Open the dresser, get the blade, just like they said. But a part of you is still screaming inside. Begging and pleading for you to stop what you're doing right now.

Do it. You're weak, I know you are. We know you are. Everyone knows you are. Please us. Prove us right and do it.

"Shut up!" You scream, holding the sides of your head. You hunch over and squeeze your eyes shut. "Leave me alone!"

You shiver. You want so desperately to turn the lights on, to walk away from that dresser for good, to prove them wrong, but you just can't bring yourself to do it. Your blood runs cold, and you feel your entire body freeze. Your toes curl. You grip the sides of your head so hard you could pull out tufts of hair.

This is fear. Raw, undisguised, absolutely painful fear. You've only felt this once before, you must remind yourself. You promised, those years ago, that you would never feel this kind of fear again.

Yet here you are.

"Leave me alone!" You repeat, hoping that invisible monster sitting next to you, hiding in the dark, will stop tugging on your sleeve. That they'll stop whispering things in your ear, awful things. That their friends will let go of your arms and your legs and your mind.

The invisible monster leans in, real close, and you can almost hear them whisper, 'Now'.

You bite your lip so hard it bleeds. You taste the slightest bit of sickening, salty blood, and that makes you absolutely lose it.

Suddenly, the air around you seems thin. You clutch at your throat, desperately gasping for oxygen. Your breath hitches as you let out a sob. With your right hand grasping your throat, your left reaches through the dark and wraps around the cool handle of the dresser drawer.

Finally, they snigger.

An awful feeling forms in your stomach. That sinking feeling that you felt as a child when you were doing something you weren't supposed to, and you knew it. You blink before yanking the drawer open.

Yes. Yes. Do it. Do it now. Right now. Hurry.

Doing exactly as they say, you push away the shirts and the leggings and the socks and everything that is getting in between you and that blade. After removing all the clothing from the drawer, you reach your hand inside and feel around for those blades you know are somewhere in the back.

You freeze when your hand wraps around something cold and sharp. Through the ringing in your ears, you hear the all too familiar sound of your fingernails against metal.

Shaking like a leaf, you slowly retract your arm. You hold the blades to your chest as if you were protecting them. Hiding it.

You don't hesitate, not another second. You hold the stack of about five blades in one one hand and with the other, you pick out a random one and hurriedly drag it across your bare arm.

You smile psychotically as you feel the familiar stinging feeling on your skin, and the warm blood trickling down your forearm.

Pathetic.

Weak.

Coward.

You like it.

Words ring through your mind, but you don't care. It's as if you're a desperate addict, the way you struggle to hastily make more and more marks on your skin. You don't notice how heavy you're breathing and how badly you're shaking and how much you're crying. You're too focused on cutting deeper and deeper. The only sound in the dark bedroom is your whimpering and the soft swoosh of the blade as you continue cutting.