That Golden Butterfly {Gaster Sans X Reader}

Chapter 3

As quietly as I could, I made my way to my room, got ready for bed and took a well-deserved rest.
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Warning!

This story may trigger readers who suffer from anxiety, depression or PTSD. There are many mentions of domestic abuse, self harm, self loathing, suicidal thoughts and tendencies. If you are easily triggered or bothered by such content, proceed with caution.
~W. D. Girl

Your POV:

I woke up to yelling. My father was standing next to my bed, looking furious. I slowly tried to sit up but was forcefully pulled out of bed by my hair. His movement caused my scalp to burn, it felt like he was trying to pull all my hair out. Next thing I know, I'm laying on the carpeted floor, tears beginning to form in the corners of my eyes.

"Where were you last night, huh?! You ungrateful brat! You think you can just disappear?!"

I was shielding my head with my arms, hits and punches came flying down on me with brute force. I didn't bother fighting back, it would only hurt more.
A kick to the stomach.
A punch to the back.
Spit directly in the face.
By the time he was done with me, my whole body was sore, blood was pouring from certain wounds that were reopened, but I still didn't care.

"I'm going on a mission. I'll be gone for about a month. Don't do anything you'd regret."

He made his way out of the house, leaving me alone with my inner demons. What did I ever do to him? Why did he hate me so much? With a heavy sigh, I limped to my bedside cabinet to grab my phone and check the time. I had one of those old-timey phones, but it was perfect. Unlocking the keypad, I shuffled between different apps, such as music, messages etc. The time read 5 am, plenty of time to get ready for school. I had to hide my scars somehow.

I released a breath I was unknowingly holding and headed towards the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and locked it. Just as a percussion. Peeling off my bloodied pj's, I threw them into the laundry bin. While looking around for soap, I noticed my father's razor. I don't know what came over me, or how I knew what I could do with it but I suddenly got a strange, aching feeling I need it in my hands. I bit my lip and reached for it.

Once it was in my hands I felt in control of myself. I felt in control of my life. I wanted to forget the pain my father inflicted. With another careful examination of the razor, I realized I could take it apart and only control the blade. I tried pulling at the plastic surrounding it. No luck there. I tried pulling the blades apart. My fingers slipped off the plastic because of the force I was putting on it. A short wave of pain surged through my pointer finger's knuckle. It stung like hell, yet at the same time, it felt relieving, satisfying. I watched as a droplet of fresh blood ran down the fingertip then landed in the sink. It held me in a trance.

Snapping back into reality, I pulled the blades apart with force, even though it caused more injuries on my knuckles. Once I held the small blade between my finger I got second thoughts. 'Do I really want this? What will it feel like?' My curiosity could only be undone after I've tried it. I stared at the blade, unsure of what to do. Making a decision not to do anything, I hopped into the shower and scrubbed away the dried up blood.

After the shower, I dressed in a long-sleeved (f/c) crop top sweater and black jeans. On top of my outfit, I wore a cozy, fluffy half (f/c), half black vest. It was 6 am when I was ready to leave. If I went then, I'd wait for the bus to come for at least an hour, so I decided to do some work around the house. Doing the laundry took a while, but was done the fastest, since my father and I don't throw much dirty laundry in the bin.
Next was vacuuming the living room. It was an utter disaster. Little crumbs of everything were littered everywhere, specks of dirt and stains of miscellaneous fluids decorated the plain couch.