YOOOOO WHAT'S GOING ON GUYS, IT'S YOUR FLYING FALCON WITH THE SALT GUN, BACK WITH A WHOLE NEW ONESHOT JUST FOR YOU!!!
This one was suggested by the beautiful Kiwi__birb__ :) I love you, you're awesome and deserve the world <3 Sorry that this took so long to come out, by the way!!
⚠WARNING⚠
Self harm, suicidal thoughts and panic attack. If that triggers you, please skip this oneshot.
ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You remembered the first time it happened.
It had at first been a change so subtle that you had almost not noticed it. Like a small fist wrapped around your heart, one that gradually grew for each second, until the fist was white from clenching too hard, and your heart, broken into a thousand pieces, ones that soon ripped holes into your lungs, causing your throat to close up and you to gasp for air.
You remembered you felt as if you were dying. You remembered imagining your face turning gradually more and more blue the less oxygen you gasped through your closed-up throat, that felt as if it was suddenly just a blocked airway - you couldn't breathe. You remembered how you had stumbled into the bathroom, hauling the door open and not caring about anything that you might've pulled with you down, or the towel you almost tripped over; you needed air. Now.
You had remembered the stinging sensation it left on the outer skin of your throat as you desperately clawed at it with your fingers, wincing when you felt your nails scrap against your delicate skin. You remembered how it felt as you slammed into the marble-tiled walls of your bathroom and how your tailbone had protested as it was harshly seated onto the cold floors.
You couldn't breathe.
You remembered the outlines of your vision slightly blackened, and you remembered thinking that was it - this was your grand exit in life, suffocating against the walls of your own bathroom, scratching at your throat in attempts of getting air into your lungs. There was air, but you couldn't get it through your clogged up throat.
There was air, but you couldn't breathe.
You also remembered the annoying tingles that suddenly appeared in your sensitive hands and feet, feeling as if they were getting stabbed by needles or a small knife. It had hurt, but your aching lungs had hurt more.
You faintly remembered flailing your legs around in an attempt of trying to do something, anything, and had kicked down the small trashcan next to your toilet, the content inside spilling all over the floor. An old makeup wipe, a crumpled napkin and some swabs.
And you remembered the sound of George bursting through the front door. You remembered hearing his light footsteps tap through the house with an urgency so fast, it for a moment reminded you of how much he cared for you.
And you remembered his worried tear-stained face coming into view, clearing out the faint color of black and the dots that had started clouding out your vision, consuming you and luring you to pass out. But the second he got there, they weren't needed. And the gasps of you hyperventilating had finally ceased, as well as your flailing limbs while you desperately panted, suddenly feeling very grateful for the air around you, something so simple that humans often took for granted.
George was there, and suddenly, you could breathe again.
George was there the second time it happened as well. And the third. And the fourth.
But he hadn't been there for the fifth. And that had been when you had needed to find another solution, one that would help you return back to your senses.
And you had found a saviour in the sharp razor blade that was in the small cabinet above the sink... And you had watched your blood flow.
When George hadn't been there for the sixth or seventh panic attack, the razor blade suddenly took his place as your new best friend, your savior, and you found that you often began seeking the company of it's sharp edges, even if you weren't under the midst of a panic attack, and your arm taking the hits to keep you satisfied.
The second George had found out about your pleasurable meetings in your bathroom with the blade, he had helped you. And he had been there again. For the eighth, ninth and tenth.
But you had never expected to flee away from George in the rush of panic settling within you. You had never anticipated that sitting there on George's couch in his hoodie that was way too big for you, and with his arm laid loosely around your shoulder in a shy act of affection, that your throat suddenly closed off, or that your hands began to tingle and the black dots appeared again.
And you had never expected to flee to his bathroom of all places, excusing yourself with "lady issues", that had caused George to get as flustered as he could get and telling you to take your time.
The smell of his hoodie lingered inside of your nose as you locked the bathroom door behind you, before turning around to look yourself in the mirror.
You felt that you looked worse than you usually did; your hair looked more uncontrollable than before, and more mattered, that is. Your eyes didn't hold the usual will to live, to laugh... To try. No, in fact, they looked quite dead. Your face had sunken in slightly as well, leaving your cheekbones more visible than before, and your whole skin had paled noticeably.
It was a wonder that George hadn't questioned your sudden... Dead demeanor. And you questioned if he even took the time out of his day to take a good look at you.
Did he not notice?
You didn't want him to notice.
Did he not know that you had went back into bad habits? That you had slipped back to satisfying yourself through pain?
You didn't want him to know. You didn't want him to know that you had managed to fail him. Again.
Or did he simply not care anymore?
You did want him to care.
But was that selfish of you? When all you brought him was trouble and heartbreak, one that only you could heal if you stopped. Just stopped.
Maybe you should just put an end to it. You weren't referring to putting the razor back in the cabinet.
... Would that be easier for George?
The thought alone had your panic level rise a degree more; you weren't even sure what triggered it this time. One minute, you had been content in the arms of George, of the one person that always seemed to be able to put an end to this, and the next, you started rummaging through the drawers and cabinets in his bathroom to try and find a razor, or at least something sharp.
Something to snap out of your state of panic.
And something, you had found indeed. Hidden underneath some of the smaller towels in one of George's drawers, was a razor blade.
Just your luck. Or unluck, whatever you choose to call it.
George heard the crash clearly from his place on the couch, followed by the undeniable thump of a body hitting the ground, and in an instant, he sprung up from his place on the couch, swearing that his heart was suddenly beating so rapidly, that he could feel it through his chest, beating erratically with a sudden worry that seemed to appear within seconds.
"Y/n?" He called through his house, not bothering to pause the cliché movie the two of you were watching, but instead choosing to run directly towards the closed bathroom door, that now seemed to taunt him more than ever.
"Y/N, are you okay?" He called out again, worried, as he nearly tripped over his own feet to get to the white-painted door.
He rapidly knocked on it, his worry only growing when he didn't get a response, only a simple choked-up sound, sounding more like a hiccup or a muffled sob, which had his face contour in one of a deep frown.
He barely even felt the sting that the wooden door left on his knuckles.
"Y/n, please, respond," He yelled, "Are you okay? Do you need me to bring you anything? Are you alright?"
All he got in response was a sob that hadn't had the time to get muffled, and the sound of something hitting the marble floors.
"I'm coming in!" George yelled, before fumbling with the extra key due to his shaking hands that stung slightly from knocking so frantically on the door, desperately wishing that he just for once in his life could gather himself together; you needed his help, and here he was, trying as hard as he could to not drop the key to the bathroom.
He took a deep breath as he finally got the key in the lock and turned it, nearly throwing the bathroom door open, the doorknob slamming into the bathroom wall. He was sure that left a mark, but the second he got his eyes on you, the thought was out of his mind before he even had time to worry about it.
You sat there, leaned up against the bathtub with your whole, tiny frame shaking... And with blood coating every single inch of the skin on your scarred arms, like somebody had painted on you with the violent crimson color that was impossible not to notice, like the demons in your mind had purposely spilled more blood than intentional just to watch you suffer.
Like they wanted you gone.
... Even your demons wanted you gone.
You weren't wanted.
Tears stained your cheeks, flooding down them like a river of heartbreak and waters that never seems to catch their end, flowing endlessly, staining what felt like the entirety of your face, and also blending in with the thick liquid of blood on your arms.
Even if the blood on your arms didn't give away what happened, George's razor blade that was dropped right beside his fluffy carpet, one that was stained with the crimson red blood along the edges, gave away what you had done to yourself... Again.
You had given in to the temptation your demons had given you... Again.
"Oh, my god, Y/n," George cried out, rushing towards you as he felt into his knees before you, too high on adrenaline to feel how it had hurt his knees with a terrible sting from nearly sliding across the floor. He just wanted to be with you, hold you, make you stop crying, console you...
He just wanted to help you.
You looked so hopeless as you say there, crumbled into yourself like a torn paper-ball with rips and cracks and folds all over, an unfinished canvas on the inside that you decided was too ugly to be safe-kept. And as you stared into his eyes with your own, so lifeless and dark, yet so filled with panic, as if you were looking around for something, George knew that would be a sight that would come back and haunt him in the nights his house got too quiet and lonely.
Your breathing was erratic, coming in short, quick gasps, either from the panic or the pain of your hand pressing against the cuts in your arm. But George knew he had to calm you down, he had to do something that would cause you to snap out of your state of panic.
At the moment, he had a hard time controlling his breathing as well.
He wasn't sure if he should touch you; a hand on the shoulder could go both ways at this point.
He wasn't sure if he should try to get your attention; trying to talk you out of a panic attack could go both was at this point as well.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Everything was a mess.
The whole room was spinning.
... And your salvation say right in front of you, inviting you into his safe arms, even if he wasn't showing it, arms that could tuck themselves all the way around you without as much as trying.
"I thought you stopped this," He whispered hoarsely, his arms shaking as he tried calming you down, anything, he just needed you to stop panicking, "I thought you stopped hurting yourself."
"I'm sorry, George," You sobbed, "I'm so sorry, please, forgive me."
"It's okay, Y/n," The british boy cried desperately, "It's okay, I forgive you. You don't need to apologize. You just... Just need to calm down, Please."
Calm down.
"For me."
Calm down. For George.
Calm down.
For George.
For George, calm down.
He forgave you, just calm down.
For George.
For George, you could calm down.
He had done so much for you, and all you had to do was calm down. You could do that. For George. He had helped you through so much, but you had been selfish, and taken all his help for granted as you slowly slipped back into old habits. Just for him, you could without a problem let him be selfish for just a moment as well, benefiting the both of you as well. It was for George, that you needed to calm down, and that you needed to stop.
Stop hurting yourself.
And it all suddenly seemed simple.
And as you slowly, but surely, calmed down, and finally realized of the mess you were, covered in your own blood and tears in front of George on his bathroom floor, you felt ashamed. He had only been wanting to help.
But you calmed down. For him. And you would stop. For him.
No matter how hard it would be.
You let yourself slump into his safe arms, suddenly feeling tucked away from the harms of the outside world as he wrapped his slightly thin arms around you, pulling you as close as possible; he didn't care that his blood stained his t-shirt. It was simply just a piece of clothing.
But he did care that you were safe in his arms, even if it wasn't under the circumstances that he had hoped. But you were safe, for now.
"You're gonna be okay, Y/N," George promised, the tears in his eyes as visible as the blood staining your arms, "You wanna know why?"
"Why?" You sniffled, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck.
"Because I'm gonna be here for you," He said, giving your body yet another gentle squeeze, "And I am never gonna leave your side. You'll get through this..."
"And I'll be right there beside you in every step of the way."
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yayayayayay i'm not dead!!!! here's to another oneshot :)
ALSO GO CHECK OUT AoifeSkye23 'S BOOK, ISLE OF LEGENDS, WHICH IS A MC YTOUBER STORY, AND ITS RLLY GOOD :)
Hopefully, I can get back to updating more often, but I had some stuff going on (private family things) that I just had to get sorted out :)
ew school starts soon
Anyways, stay tuned and stay safe, guys!
vote or die tmr
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