I Can't Get Rid Of That Feeling That I Wasn't Made For This World

I can't get rid of that feeling that I wasn't made for this world

My brain has malfunctioned

I am an error

I shouldn't be here

21.08.21

Throwback to this summer when I fed some cows <33333 their pasture is right behind granmas house :’) luv them

Sanctuary

masterlist || ao3

summary: Sometimes life can become too much, and when that happens, when it feels like you are drowning in a dark sea without a raft or a lifeline to cling to, when the tumultuous storm of despondent emotions raging inside of you can not be contained anymore, that is when you do what many would consider an unspeakable thing: you escape into a tiny, dark room, and you take your anguish out on yourself.

You didn't think anyone did or would care if they found out what you were doing to yourself, but then one day you are proven wrong when a certain long-haired metalhead follows you into the darkness.

word count: 2907

rating: T+

tags: Eddie x Reader, Self-Harm, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Eddie being a sweetheart

triggers: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF SELF HARM! So read at your own discretion.

a/n: Another oneshot that was born from an imagine on my old blog - Imagine Eddie Finding Your Self Harm Scars - so please, please be careful reading this if that sort of thing triggers you, okay? <3

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You dragged the razor over your skin and watched as beads of red began dotting a delicate line across your wrist. Gritting your teeth you let out a hiss of pain, yet somehow also enjoyed the sting. 

Pain was good. It was grounding. It brought you back to reality. 

When the world felt like it was going to crush you, when your own brain felt like it was going to tear itself apart from the maelstrom of emotions that ravaged your every waking thought. 

When everything became... just too much. 

When you felt like you were drowning, that’s when you came here. 

This was your secret place. Your special place where you could just let your walls down and fall apart and no one could catch you being vulnerable and tear into you for it. 

This was where you were safe. 

It was a room in the very back of the drama department. An old storage room you assumed, a place where they stowed unused and unneeded props or costumes between performances. No one came in here during the day except for drama class, and even then the students and teachers almost always stayed in the front where the actual classroom was. 

This tiny, dark corner was for the rejects. Just like you. 

You crouched down amongst some old costumes, their musty smell and heavy fabric comforting to you, and dug the razorblade one more time against the exposed flesh of your forearm. 

No one ever asked why you always wore long sleeves, and you were grateful for that. 

It had been the Worst Day. You’d woken up late and had to do the walk of shame to your desk when you showed up to class twenty minutes after it had started. You hadn’t even had time to eat breakfast and the lack of food mixed with the humiliation of your classmates’ burning stares and piercing snickers caused you to dissociate from sheer anxiety. 

Then it all came to a head when That Bitch Regina and her squad of airheaded cronies caught you outside of the cafeteria. You’d been looking forward to finally eating when you’d heard their grating, high pitched, squealing giggles, and your heart dropped out of your chest and down to the floor. 

“Well well, if it isn’t Hawkins’ residential mental case,” Regina's sugary sweet voice sang out, wrapping around you like a boa constrictor trapping its prey and squeezing . You’d just hugged your books to your chest and kept your head down, eyes glued to the shiny linoleum floor. You felt nauseous, and you were still dissociating, so it was almost like you were experiencing all of this under water. But that didn’t make her piercing stare or poisonous smile any less painful to bear. 

Regina and her gang of clones were the residential mean girls; each coming from a family that was as filthy rich as they were privileged. And for whatever reason they seemed to take a particularly keen interest on targeting you. 

“What? Not gonna say anything? Thank god for that.”

“Oh my god what is wrong with her?” Crony #1 laughed.

“Guess they ran out of room over at Pennhurst and had to start bringing the psych patients over here,” snickered Crony #2. 

“Ah look guys, I think she’s going to cry,” giggled Crony #3. They all put their hands over their mouths and gave mock-sympathetic looks. 

“Ooh, poor baby,” Regina crooned, her eyes shining with malice. 

Rage pierced through your numb thoughts as you tightened your grip around your books. This was the part of bullying that you hated the most: the inability to fight back. Because you knew that if you threw the first punch, no matter how justified it may be, you would be seen as the bad guy. 

You couldn’t do anything, you just had to stand there and take it. 

And that’s what fucking killed you every time. 

Unable to handle the storm brewing inside of you, your eyes stinging with tears, which only pissed you off more, you turned heel and fled, Regina’s laughter echoing after you down the hall like arrows piercing into your back. 

You were breathing heavily, tears already trailing down your face by the time you’d reached your hideout. 

You tossed your books to the side without looking at them and reached into your pocket, pulling out a single razorblade. 

You couldn’t take your anger or pain or humiliation out on others, not even those who caused it, so you took it out on yourself. 

Pulling the sleeve of your jacket back revealed an already accumulated grid of scars ranging in size and noticeability. You’d been doing this for a long time. Since you started high school, basically, and the bullying had started. 

Why did they hate you? Why didn’t they accept you? 

What was wrong with you? 

As you dragged the razor over your skin and the blood began to flow, a wave of serenity washed over you. The rage was gone, leaving instead a strange sort of bliss. 

And exhaustion. You’d been on edge since that morning, and now all you wanted to do was curl up in this warm, dark place and sleep. 

Sleep forever . 

You were so wrapped up in the thought of what drifting off into eternal bliss would actually feel like, that you hadn’t heard the door to the storage room open, or the sound of footsteps coming your way. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

Your head snapped up and you found yourself staring right into the eyes of Hawkins’ residential Freak: Eddie Munson. 

Automatically you pressed your injured arm to your chest to try and hide the fresh marks you’d made and pressed the hand holding the razor to the floor, hiding it under your palm. 

“Um, nothing,” you quickly squeaked out, hoping to god he hadn’t seen you. 

But the clear shock written all over his face told you he had. You clenched your jaw and waited for the worst to come, waited for him to immediately run to the principal’s office or the guidance counselor or the nurse or even just the first teacher he saw, waited for him to start laughing at you and asking “What the hell is wrong with you?”  

Waited for the jeering and mocking to start. 

But what you didn’t expect was for Eddie to take three long, quick strides towards you, drop down on his knees in front of you, and, with a strong but not unkind or rough grip, take both of your wrists in his hands and pull them forward so both of your arms were exposed. 

And the razor you were still holding. 

You pulled at your bottom lip with your teeth as a wave of fresh hot humiliation washed over you, each of your scars laid out for him to see. The newest additions were streaked with blood that was now also smeared on the front of your jacket from where you’d tried to hide your wrist. 

You ducked your head down and braced for the oncoming string of curses and harsh remarks…. 

But they never came. 

You clenched your jaw and tried to keep the tears from rolling down your face, but they did, and you almost felt betrayed by your body. 

Dammit, keep it together. 

You sat like that for an agonizing long time, just waiting for him to say something. Why wasn’t he saying anything? 

“Okay,” he finally murmured, in a voice that surprised you; it was quiet. It wasn’t the voice of the Eddie Munson you knew, the one who, almost daily, walked across a cafeteria table yelling insults at the other cliques in the school. Especially the jocks. 

In all honesty his Loud and Proud personality was something that always intimidated you. Which sucked because you always thought he was actually pretty cool and you would have loved to go and talk to him and ask him about his jacket, but you were always too scared to. 

And now he was holding your wrists in his hands and speaking in the most gentlest voice you’d ever heard from him. 

“Okay,” he repeated. “Just a sec.” Slowly he released your wrist, the one with the fresh cuts on it, and reached around for something you couldn’t see; you kept your eyes glued solely to a spot on the floor between the two of you. A second later his hand reappeared in your vision, holding the familiar black and white bandana he always kept tucked into his back pocket. 

He let go of your other wrist in a way that you swore was almost reluctant in how slowly he moved, and took your injured wrist in his hand once again, holding it still while he dabbed away the blood that had accumulated on your skin. 

“Should really be doing this with water,” he murmured, so quietly it was as if he were speaking to himself. “But I left my canteen back in my van and….” After doing what he could to clean away the blood, he tied his bandana around your wrist to cover the wound. “There. Though we really should get a bandaid or something for it.” 

You licked your lip and glanced to the side, where you had thrown your things. “My bag,” you whispered. 

You could feel the heat of Eddie’s eyes on your face, as if he were examining you or searching for something in your expression, before he slowly stood and walked over to where your things were, abandoned in a dark corner of the room. He rooted around in your backpack for a few seconds before producing an open box of bandaids. 

“Well at least you’re… prepared. I guess,” he stated, dropping back down onto his knees before you. 

He undid his bandana from your wrist and began replacing it with bandaids. He still held your wrist carefully as he did this, thumb idly rubbing a soothing pattern across your hand. 

You hadn’t expected such…. Such gentleness from the man. Such softness. 

It was too much. It was all too much. You felt your face tighten up and a sob force itself out of your throat, tears flowing out of your eyes and down your face. 

Hesitating for only a second, Eddie reached forward and put an arm around your back, pulling you into his chest. 

“Oh, hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” 

You sucked in a sharp breath. “Why are you being so nice to me?” you sobbed. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Why…. why…..” But you couldn’t get a word out. You couldn’t get two words out. Not for a while. 

For several minutes you couldn’t do anything except sob into Eddie “The Freak” Munson’s chest while he just held you close and let you process your emotions. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you asked once more, after most of your energy had been spent, after you could take deep breaths again, and after the sobs had trickled out to just the occasional hiccup and sniffle. 

“You look like you needed it,” he answered. He’d moved you so he had one arm around you with your head tucked securely under his chin. You only had the energy to lean limply against him, but it was enough. He was warm, you noticed. And he smelled nice. Like sun-warmed leather and clean laundry.

But when he said that, a fresh hot sting pierced your already tender heart. Oh, so it’s a pity thing . 

“Look,” he continued. “I saw the resident Bitch Regina, and her gang of walking barbie dolls, corner you outside of the cafeteria.” 

You winced at the memory, and at the knowledge that your humiliation had been seen. 

“I was gonna go up and talk to you, ask if you wanted to sit at our table today, but you ran off before I could get there. I wanted to make sure you were okay so I…. I followed you.” 

That was surprising. You hadn’t thought you’d even registered on his radar. You always kind of thought of the Hellfire Club and his close-knit group of friends to be pretty exclusive. 

“I didn’t think you’d be…. That I’d find….” 

You felt his hold on you tighten just a fraction. 

You moved finally, for the first time since Eddie found you. You reached up and wiped your nose with the sleeve of your jacket. 

“Sorry,” you croaked out. Sorry you found me like this, sorry you had to make it your problem, sorry I’m such a freak, sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry-  

“Don’t be.” 

His answer was so surprising it actually made you laugh. A dry, bitter laugh, but still a laugh. Still a smile. 

“What?” 

“Don’t be sorry.” He reached down and took your hand, turning it so your now bandaged wrist was facing up. “Not for this. Don’t ever be sorry for this .” 

The way he said it, the firmness in his voice, finally made you look up at him. It wasn't harshness, he wasn't judging you or trying to make you feel bad about what you had done, that was obvious: he was worried, he was trying to get across the exact opposite; that being in pain, this level of pain, was not something to be sorry for. Not something to be ashamed of. You took in his furrowed brow, his shining dark eyes, almost black in the shadowed room, but overflowing with warmth and worry and concern.

Concern for you. 

Those eyes. Those beautiful, dark, warm eyes.  

You realized for the first time that when Eddie looked at you like that, you felt seen. 

You held each other's gaze for only a few seconds before he broke the spell he had cast on you to stare down at your wrists. His hands positively dwarfed yours, long fingers completely encircling your wrists with no problem. But you didn't feel threatened or trapped by him holding you like that. 

Quite the opposite, actually.  

“Will you just, promise me something?” He murmured, voice still low, still gentle. As if he were speaking to a spooked animal.

You sniffled again, twisting your head around to wipe your nose on your shoulder, as he still held your hands. 

“Sure. What?” 

“Instead of, you know, this…. Could you just come and find me? Please? I’ll talk to you, I’ll do whatever with you.” Suddenly, his mouth quirked up into a small, hesitant crooked smile. “Hell, I’ll even help you burn this place to the ground if you wanted.” 

That earned another laugh from you. A more genuine one this time. One that felt like someone was stitching your heart back together. 

“Just…. Remember that those bitches, Regina and literally whoever else, they aren’t worth this.” He turned his gaze down to your hands again and whispered so softly you wondered if he was speaking to you, or just himself, “They aren’t worth you hurting yourself like this.” 

You tugged at your bottom lip again and followed his line of sight down to your hands, being held in his. His were so big, and warm, and they were gentle, but with an underlying strength that you found surprising, but comforting. Like, as long as he was holding your hands, he could hold you together. 

The two of you sat like that for a long moment before you finally worked up the courage to whisper out, “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” he said. He looked back up at you and, as if suddenly realizing how close the two of you were, finally released his hold on your hands and in one fluid motion swept up to his feet and slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. 

You immediately missed his warmth. 

"Seriously," he stated, before turning and beginning to make his way to the door. But he hesitated in the doorway, one hand holding the frame, the rings on his fingers glinting dully in what little light was in the room. He glanced back at you over his shoulder, his wild mane of curls framing his face like a curtain.  

“So uh, I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow?” he asked. 

You stared up at him, absentmindedly pulling the sleeves of your jacket down to hide the scars beneath. There was a light in his eyes, and a kind but hesitant smile on his face. He was being serious. 

Smiling felt awkward and heavy on your face. You were never good at faking being happy or putting on a mask for others, so you rarely ever smiled. But even though it felt unnatural, this was the first time in a long time you genuinely had something to smile about.   

“Yeah,” you said. “I promise.”

Promise. 

A wide grin spread across Eddie's face, causing his eyes to crinkle and shine. “Cool. Keep it real.” 

Then he did the most adorkable thing that made you start laughing for real: he shot you finger guns, and left.  

It wasn’t until you had gathered your things and gotten yourself put together enough to leave that you realized something: at some point while he was holding your hands, Eddie had slipped the razorblade out of your grip and had taken it with him. 

And for whatever reason, that made you smile too. 

You really are making sure I come back to you, huh, Munson?  

Suddenly, the rest of the day felt more bearable; because now you had lunchtime with your new friend to look forward to tomorrow. 

add some more rings ... this is eddie munson coded.