BTT x Depressed!Reader: String (3)

"(Name). . ." Francis whispered solemnly, his grip slowly loosening as he trailed his orbs to your (e/c) eyes.

You pulled your wrist back and held it to your chest. "W-what?!" You snapped out, trying to sound fierce, but failing badly. Your voice was broken, and Francis took a step closer to you. You feared he would try to embrace you, pet your hair, tell you everything was going to be okay. You didn't want that.

You took a step back, and he froze, reading the body language.

Instead, his whispered out, "(Name), I care about you." He paused, and your eyes darted from side to side, trying to figure where you could run to get to your room the fastest. Francis did not notice, as he was looking down. "I don't want to see you do this. Look, I-"

Okay, that was enough. You found your route and took it while he was distracted. You ran into your room, and Francis followed once he felt the air breeze past his cheek. But you were too quick for him, slamming your bedroom door in his face before he could enter.

Crap, crap! Why the hell did you let this slip? Why did you let him find out? Why did you let (bestfriend) find out? You're so stupid, stupid, stupid! You stupid, worthless, piece of trash whore!

Your thoughts got more and more violent as tears pricked once more. You paced your bedroom, fists clenching and unclenching. You were grinding your teeth.

A pounding on your door brought you back.

"(Name)!" Francis shouted. "(Name), let me in!"

"Go away!" You shouted back.

"No! Not until you tell me what is going on! Why don't you ever have food?"

"Go away!" You shouted, louder.

Francis ignored it. "Why are you so sad?"

"Piss off!"

"Why do you cut your wrists?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, a tear falling. You shouted as loud as your scratched up voice box would let you. "GO AWAY!"

Francis fell silent. Your cries could be heard from the other side of the door.

The Frenchie sighed. He had told his parents he was going on the trip, and told his friends he was staying home. He had nowhere else to go, and desperately wanted to talk to (name), to find out what was really happening.

So, he sat with his back against your door, and waited.

Eventually, he fell asleep, your crying prominent in his ears.

X

You didn't know what time it was. You didn't know how long you had been crying. You didn't bother checking the clock. The vanished light from the window told you all you needed.

You looked at your wrist. You slowly and silently ran your fingers over your scars, old and new, as Francis' words replayed in your head for the millionth time.

'Why don't you ever have food? Why are you so sad? Why do you cut your wrists?'

Why. The familiar word made you shudder.

You realized just then that you left the front door open. Not wanting the dogs to run off, and to check that they already hadn't you left your room to close the front door. But as soon as you opened your bedroom door, you had to stop yourself from nearly tripping over a sleeping Francis, fallen on his side. You blinked. Had he really been here this whole time? Wh. . .

You held your mental tongue. No, you decide not to travel down that path. You don't finish your thought, and destroy any others pertaining to the subject of why Francis was sleeping in front of your door, instead of going back home or somewhere else. . .

You quietly step over him. Checking, you see that your dogs are all still there, doing whatever dogs enjoy doing in your father's room. You shut and lock the front door, then cautiously make your way back to your room. This time, you check the time.

10:45PM

You had fallen asleep in the midst of your crying, and weren't surprised at how late it was. You were tired now, so you crawled into bed and laid there. You tossed this way, you tossed that. It was only -a matter of sleepless time until the clock struck midnight. You rolled over, tried to sleep, then rolled over again.

1:03AM

You sigh. It was clear you weren't going to be doing any sleeping soon, so - what do you decide to do? Watch television, of course. A mindless activity to "rest" your mind as you sit, not using your muscles. Your logic as you step over Francis and make your way to the living room.

Sitting on the couch, you turn on the television. You didn't know what was on, and you didn't care. Something to get your mind off everything. Something to get your mind off of your mother and her boyfriend, your father, the bullies, Francis, your wrist. You felt the sting on your skin, and realized that the bandages had been left on the floor. Oh well, no matter. Francis already knew anyways. You sighed again. Why did you have to lie like that? Make him bail on his friends, make him drive to your house, make him fall asleep on your floor? You were such a burden.

A stupid, useless, burden.

~

". . .and I say, 'Hey! What a wonderful time today. . .'"

Blinking open my eyes, I yawned. I could hear the sound of the television playing from the living room, and noticed, when I tried to lean back, that (name)'s bedroom door was open.

"Why is she up?" I mumbled as I rubbed one of my baby blue eyes. Standing, I decided to investigate.

In the living room, I saw (name) sitting on the couch, watching that old American children's show "Arthur". The room was completely dark, save for the artificial and slightly buzzing light coming from the t.v. She sat there, alone in the spotlight. Her fragile form appeared tired, and for a moment I wondered once more why she was not in her bed, sleeping. I then thought that she had fallen asleep, but she sighed, and I knew she was awake. But she didn't seem to be paying attention to the show. She seemed sad. But why? Was she trying to escape?

No, I told myself, that doesn't matter now. What matters is her wrists, and why she would do that. I wished she wouldn't. Why would she in the first place? I wished she would tell me. What has been going on? What has been happening in her life? Can I help her with it? I wished she would let me.

There's so many things I wish for (name). I wish she would be happy. I wish she wouldn't spill her own blood. I wish that she could let me help her.

I walked over to her, accidentally silent, and placed my hand on her shoulder. (Name) jumped slightly and turned to look at me. Her (e/c) eyes were wide and scared, and I felt the need to withdrawal my hand. I did so. (Name) turned back to the t.v.

"Oh, h-hi Francis," she mumbled. Was she angry? Upset? I could not tell.

"What are you watching?" I asked innocently.

"Um. . ." (Name) took a moment to answer. "Arthur, I think it's called."

I slowly walked around to the other side of the couch, sitting down on one side. "You seem distracted."

(Name) looked down. "Mhm. I'm tired. Can't sleep."

"Is something on your mind?"

She didn't answer.

I placed my hand on hers, which was resting on her knee. (Name) didn't flinch. "(Name)." I paused, thinking. "Can you tell me about it? I want to help you."

There was a long pause. I moved my hand off of hers and gently brushed her hair from her face. (Name) continued looking down, then back up at me. I was right earlier; there was a bruise on her face.

"(Name)?"

She looked back down, bit her lip, and slowly nodded.