If I Stay✔️

56

trigger warning: mentions of blood, alcohol, sa, self harm, ed, driving under the influence, mental illness, marco, suicide, drugs.

L E O

I woke up with a gasp, my eyes glancing to the barred windows to be met with darkened skies of purple and blackened blue, telling me it must've been the middle of the night at least. I closed my eyes and breathed heavily, my chest rising and falling rapidly, whilst my trembling fingers clutched the sheets, holding onto them as if they were my lifeline.

Sweat gathered around my nape, my sweatshirt and sheets damp, whilst hair clung to my forehead. It's not real, he's not here. I repeated over and over again, tasting the saltiness of my own tears on my tongue as my panic only grew.

My chest tightened, and my grip on the sheets faltered as the flashbacks continued to plague me. He's not here, he's not here, he's not here-

I don't know how long I lay there gasping before I pulled myself from the bed and tumbled into the bathroom. I leaned my back against the door, ensuring to lock it behind me as I took painful heaving breaths. It took me seven minutes to find the will powder to move, to breathe, and finally rinse the reminiscent of my tears and sweat from my flushed skin.

My heart felt hollow as I met my reflection in the mirror perched above the small ceramic, cream coloured sink. Bloodshot, tired, reddened eyes stared back at me. God, I feel sick. The bags underneath were almost as purple as the bruises that once littered my previously tanned skin. It was weird to look at myself and see no marks or abrasions. I couldn't quite tell if I liked it, or if I longed to feel the pain those uneven pieces of skin reminded me of.

Turning on the faucet, I removed my shirt and submerged my hands under the freezing water, splashing it against my skin greedily. It was a conflicting feeling, the breathtaking, nose chilling kind of cold that reminded me I was alive and well. How bittersweet. I let the water run as a sob past through my lips, praying that the sound of splashing would somehow hide my pathetic whimpers from Oliver in fears he'd awoken.

Look at you, you're pathetic.

Gripping the sink tightly between my finger tips, I bit my lip so hard that the water below me tinted crimson as blood poured from my self inflicted wound. Stop being pathetic, he's not here, he can't hurt you- I tried to tell myself, though I knew my words were wrong. He could hurt me, he had hurt me. He will always be able to hurt me, whether the hurt is real or just from memory, there's no escape.

I trace my hand over the scar on the left hand side of my neck, my fingers pressing into each small puncture wound his teeth left in their wake. Closing my eyes, his words fill the strange silence in my mind.

Tell me you're mine.

My hand drifting down my chest as memories wash over me quicker than I can breathe.

I'm yours.

The way his fingers gripped my hips, how I'd trace those bruises each night as I cried myself to sleep. The way his mouth occupied mine, how his tongue would push past the barrier of my clapped lips as I plead with myself to just be stronger, to push him off. How I failed and he invaded me, all tongue and teeth and harshness, how he never gave me the chance to recoil, the chance to just breathe. How the taste of tobacco and stale alcohol and him would linger for hours after he'd finally finish. How I'd brush my teeth, I'd brush and brush and brush and brush, but nothing, no amount of toothpaste, or mouth wash could take away the taste of him. Whether he hadn't kissed me in days, or weeks, or on the odd occasion months, it never left me.