tratie one shots, vol. i

[ processing / tw ]

sorry it took so long to update, this was a tough one to write. but i wanted to do it, because i love messages that destigmatize mental illnesses. this is NOT to romanticize. just to show that there's hope for better things if you don't take the path Katie tried to.

tw: mental illness, depression, suicide attempt/mention, self harm mention 

words: 1642

. . . 

Travis' hesitant steps resonated through the corridors of the psych ward. Staccato breaths escaped his lungs, and fragile confidence trembled through his mind. It was unbelievable, the reason why he was there. He still couldn't comprehend it, his brain was on pause. There were nurses and janitors working around him, but he couldn't so much as manage a nod in passing. The only thing moving were his feet, closer and closer to her.

Nothing else was processing.

He blamed himself, mostly. He gave her a hard time since the day she came to camp. Everyone knew she was depressed - she was very open about taking her medication, or going to her therapist on the other side of Long Island. But he still irritated her on purpose. It was probably his fault.

The door of the room stared at him with deafening superiority as if to wordlessly defy Travis' motive for being there. His hand hovered above the doorknob, inches from her. All he had to do was twist the door handle, and she would be there waiting for him.

Nothing else was processing.

What would he say? No one had spoken to her in months, what would it be like? The camp supposed he would be fine, that he wasn't effected by this. After all, they were half-mortal enemies, right? No. He almost lost her, and that wasn't something he would've recovered from.

What do you say to someone who just attempted taking their own life?

Nothing else was processing.

A surge of energy assisted in his briskly opening the door, and the shock of the scene before him gave him chills. 

IVs and fluid bags, a tray of untouched cafeteria food, a heart monitor - and, as the centerpiece of the twisted bouquet of it all, her. She had ghostly pale skin and dark circles under her eyes, but the detail that stuck out most to him were the tear stains tracing patterns down her cheeks. She obviously hadn't eaten well in a long time, she'd lost an extreme amount of weight. This was a broken girl, and even after three months, she wasn't put back together. She probably never would be.

He searched for the reason she was there, the vertical scars adorning her from her wrists through her forearm. (It was a wonder that she survived, the cuts were deep and certain, and how they stitched her in time was a mystery to Travis but a miracle nonetheless.) The remaining space of her wrists were striped with smaller, less life-threatening cuts and scars that were just only starting to fade.

Nothing else was processing.

Her eyes met his over a sea of emotion, and he shifted in uneasily. He was never good in these moments, but now, when the girl he secretly loved was the one in the hospital bed, he could hardly contain his grief. The psychologist had told him to make sure he didn't blame her or make her feel like she had everyone worrying to death, because she didn't need high stress levels. She also already thought everything was going wrong because of her, and the last thing he wanted to do was make her feel worse than she already did. 

He was the first person she wanted to see. She hadn't seen anyone since the day it happened, and refused any interaction for the few months she'd been in the ward. When she eventually opened up, the doctors asked who she wanted to see. She wanted Travis. She chose him over her siblings, her parents, everyone. This was big.