Larry Stylinson One Shots II

Midnight Memories

Summary: Louis saves Harry's life without realizing it.

Content Warning
Suicidal thoughts, self harm

This one is sad, so if anyone needs to or wants to talk, my PMs are always open ❤️

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Harry POV
The blue tinted light in the bathroom strangely makes the space feel like a hospital. If they knew what I was thinking, they would lock me up. I sit on the edge of the perfecrly white tub, glancing back at it and imagining my lifeless body lying in it, covered in my own blood. I could go out just like Hannah Baker. Tears prick at my eyes as I think of Louis finding my body in the tub. Would he dirty his clothing with my blood to pick me up? Would he cry? Would he try to save me? I shake my head, because the thoughts are becoming too much.

Before I open the mirror cabinet, I look at myself for the first time all day; I hardly recognize the person staring back. My skin is dull, the dark circles under my eyes are as obvious as ever, and my dry lips and unstyled hair reflect no amount of what I used to be. I open the mirror cabinet and see toothpaste, moisturizer, cotton balls, and more. More importantly, I see the razor that I use for shaving, as well as Louis' sleeping pills. With tired, shaking hands, I take the sleeping pills out from the cabinet. I pour a handful of them and my heart races as I imagine myself downing all of them with water, going to sleep next to Louis and never waking up.

"Can I come in?" Louis suddenly speaks from the other side of the door. He jiggles the doorknob and realizes it is locked. I put the pills back as quietly as I can, which isn't quiet at all; surely Louis knows the sound of his own pills against the plastic pill bottle. I run a hand through my unwashed hair and look around the room, making sure everything is in place before opening the door for Louis. "Hi sunshine." A warm smile spreads across his face when he sees me, and he holds me by the waist and greets me with a kiss on the lips. This should make me happy, but it makes me want to curl up and cry because I don't deserve him. All I deserve is the pain I feel on a daily basis. "I just came to brush my teeth. Are you all ready for bed?" Louis smells faintly of smoke that he tried to cover up with his vanilla cologne, which explains why I was able to sit on the edge of the tub for an uninterrupted 20 minutes.

"No," I have to clear my throat for the words to come out clearly, "not yet," I tell him. I watch Louis' eyes as they look me up and down in the mirror, and I immediately know that he knows I'm not my normal self. He decides not to bring it up, and we quietly brush our teeth together, sharing the one sink. Through the mirror, I look back at the tub, my body almost aching to be lying in it and slitting my wrists vertically with my sharpest blade.

There is a certain peace with knowing you want to kill yourself, because you are choosing where, when, and how you end your life, not cancer or a vehicle or alcohol or anything else that can kill you.

After Louis and I rinse our mouths, we turn to kiss each other, as we habitually do after brushing our teeth in the morning and at night.

"Are you coming to bed now?" Louis asks as he heads out of the bathroom.

"In a minute," I quietly say, then shut and lock the door behind him. I feel like I want to cry after that interaction, because I feel like I can't handle anything anymore. I sit back on the edge of the tub and bury my head in my hands, letting out a long sigh. I'm so weak I can hardly take it. I used to be strong and happy and social. Now, the only time I leave my house is for work.

The secret blade that I keep among the clean towels in the small cupboard calls my name, and I slowly stand up and make my way to it. I sit in the tub this time and roll up the left sleeve of my long sleeve t-shirt. Louis knows I cut, so I don't have bracelets under my shirt, since there is no reason to hide them. Even then, there isn't very much to cover up, since the last time I cut was last week, and it was on my thigh. My right hand brings the shiny silver blade to my wrist. I can see a faint blue vein on my forearm, highlighting the direction the blade is going to go. I don't have to press very hard, since the blade is sharp; I whimper as I feel it gliding through layers of my skin. I make it nearly halfway down my forearm, wanting nothing more than to scream and tear into my arm and watch myself bleed out on both wrists.