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James' POV. (Trigger Warning)

I hold the noose I had made awhile back. I had hidden it under my bed. Thomas left and I didn't have my binder on. Exposing my large chest. I stare at the scars and cuts on my wrist.

What was the point?

Why am I here?

Nobody would be sad that I'm gone...

They'd have one less thing to worry about.

Not like they worried about me in the first place.

I'm a mistake.

I sigh and stand up, going to the bathroom. Staring at my blank face. My long hair going over one of my eyes. I always hated my hair like this. So feminine.

Why did I even bother.

I'm a female

My name is Jasmine.

I look at all the scars and cuts again up and down my wrists. I stand on the toilet and hand the noose. Not bothering to write a letter. No one would want one.

They'll be glad.

The itchy rope stings my neck as I slide into it. I tighten it around my neck, already having trouble breathing.

It'll all be over soon.

I slip from the toilet and struggle as the noose begins to choke me. I pull on it, trying to release myself as I gasp for air. I see Thomas run into the room as I take my final breath.

I hear him scream.

It's all over

All done.

Now I'm greeting death.

./-./-./-.

James sits up quickly, awakening from his horrible dream. He gasps for air, having no luck. He had fallen asleep with his binder on so breathing was difficult. He reaches frantically to his back, undoing his binder quickly. After struggling, he finally undoes it. He gasps for large gulps of breath. His bedsheets were tangled in his legs. Unpleasantly sticking to his skin because of the amount of sweat coming from his body. He feels his neck, to only feel remains of scabs from Thomas vines the day they fought. He lets out a breath of relief and wipes his face of tears. He pulls his shirt up, taking the binder off. His ribs stung and his lungs felt weak. He needed his inhaler. He slips his shirt back over himself, feeling very uncomfortable from the absence of his binder. He reaches into the bedside table beside him and grabs a blue inhaler out. He takes a quick puff of it. His chest hurt. From the pressure on his breasts, and the stinging against his skin. His lungs still felt weak, like he had to gasp for air or he would faint. So he stayed there, sitting up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. The lightheaded feeling in his head overcame him. He takes another puff of his inhaler, then falls back into the bed. Kicking his binder under his bed. He lays there, staring at the ceiling. He pulled his shirt up again and faintly sees red lines against his skin. Leaving his skin almost raw. He winces at the pain and sight. I gently moves his fingers across the lines seeping into his skin. Indents where straps of the binder had laid too tightly around his torso. He takes his shirt off, leaving him in shorts and a sports bra. He looks at his breasts, disgusted at the sight. He hesitantly smooths his finger tips across the top of his breasts, looking for indents in his skin. Near the inner part of his breast, he hit a spot that made him wince and yank his hand away. He gently feels it, the deepest wound/mark. His skin was raw and most likely bleeding. A large indent going across his right breast. He sighs, disgusted with himself. He runs a hand through his thick short hair. He goes to the bathroom and closes the door then flicks on the light. He sees the pink gashes in his skin, making him cringe. Indents scattered across his torso and chest. I sees the indent across his right breast. It was red and pink from the pressure of the binder and the constant rubbing of the strap across his skin. He decides to do nothing about it and turns the light off and flips onto his bed. Too tired to put a shirt on. He lays there, thinking to himself. He sighs and falls into an uncomfortable sleep. Not in the right state of mind to sleep at all...