kill me if i end up like you ↠ septiplier

o n e

Jack opened the door to a black car that was waiting for him, sighing as he buckled up and ignored the look he was given from his friend.

"So how'd it go?" a Swedish voice asked.

Jack shrugged, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and pulling at his raw skin as he looked out the window. He didn't want to talk about it and he was lucky Felix could tell; the subject was quickly dropped.

The ride home was quiet and tense, Jack reached forward and turned on the radio before leaning back in his seat and turning to the side. He shrunk in the cushions as far as he could, wishing the car's interior would swallow him whole. Today was rough, every day he had therapy was rough.

He knew Felix was probably watching him out of the corner of his eye as he drove, but Jack didn't care. They were good enough friends for him to know when not to push or ask any questions, therapy days were those days where he knew to stay quiet.

"Hey...Hey stop that.."

A hand swatted at his mouth as a trail of blood ran down his lip where he teeth dug in, he blinked in surprise.

"I'm sorry," Jack mumbled, using his sleeve to wipe away the mess.

"It's okay, bud, don't worry, just be careful," Felix shot him a quick, kind smile but Jack could see through it. That was a pity grin.

It wasn't long before they pulled up to their shared home, they were roommates, mostly because Felix didn't trust Jack on his own after the incident, he couldn't be alone for long periods of time anymore.

Jack was out of the car quickly, already shoving the key in the door and pushing inside before Felix could lock the car. He went to his room and kicked off his shoes, instantly climbing into bed and wrapping himself up like a burrito with the comforter.

Warmth filled his chest and for the first time that day he smiled a little, snuggling in the bed. That's the one thing he loved, his bed. His bed couldn't do any wrong, his bed couldn't hurt him, his bed could only comfort  and support him. Jack had never been in love before but he would assume what he felt for his bed was just that.

Despite how nice he felt while cuddling his sheets, something had to ruin it, and that something was his mind. He'd let his eyes fall shut, his breathing had finally relaxed when those familiar images flashed behind his lids.

He groaned loudly, grabbing a pillow and covering his face with it, wishing he could smother himself to death. His skin sizzled wherever the phantom hands touched him and he curled in on himself, turning on his side and bringing his knees to his chest.

"Stop...stop, stop, stop," he whispered, praying that his mind would quit tormenting him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying his hardest not to get worked up. It's always easier said than done though. His stomach tied in knots and his hands trembled, he had to grip his knees to keep them even remotely still. He tried evening his breathing, focusing on the area around him to keep himself grounded.

"Soft, cotton sheets surround me; cold air on my nose and ears; toes digging in the mattress; hands on my thigh- no, that's not real, stop it, don't touch me," he cut himself off by swatting at his legs, fear and dread filling him when that didn't work.

The ghost-hands traveled along his body and the blankets that once comforted him now constricted any sort of movement to flee from his nonexistent offenders. He panicked, flailing under the covers as he tried to get out.

"F-Fuck! Get off!" he yelped. He felt like he was being choked, his skin became hot and prickly. He struggled for several minutes, the darkness that surrounded him under the blankets slowly morphed into a familiar figure.