Too far gone to pray

Chapter eight

⚠️ Trigger warning self harm

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Louis' POV

He woke up in the middle of the night from a dream. He felt something wet in his bed and his member was throbbing. He felt so ashamed and wanted to cry. It would have been less of an embarrassment if he had been dreaming of a girl, but he didn't. He dreamed of a boy, Harry to be specific. He was even a screwup in his dreams. How could he face Harry after this?

He didn't know what to do, this hadn't really happened before. He stripped his bed and got rid of the evidence. He put new sheets on then went to take a shower. He had heard at school that cold showers helped. He got in the shower hoping and praying that it would work, but it didn't.

Images of what had happened in the dream kept floating through his head. Images of Harry and him in a very compromising position. He knew it was wrong, he hated himself for thinking these things. He sat on the shower floor as the cold water cascaded down hitting him. He sobbed hard wishing that he could just be normal, or simply sese to exist.

His boner, as the boys called it a school, hadn't gone down at all. He didn't know what to do, he hadn't had to deal with this before. He had heard of what a hand job was, but he never imagined himself actually doing it. He didn't know what else to do, the cold shower didn't work.

He got up of the shower floor and stood in the middle of the shower. He wrapped his right hand around his member and used his left hand to brace himself with the wall. He took a deep breath and started stroking his member. He felt things he had never felt before. He wrapped more of his hand around and started jerking his hand back and forth. He felt a warm butterfly feeling in his stomach before a white substance covered his hands. He cried as he washed himself off. He knew that it was wrong, and that only made him feel worse. He felt ashamed that he had done that. The thing he was most ashamed and worried about was that he wasn't thinking about a girl while doing it.

He was so messed up. Why couldn't he just think of girls like everyone else. He tried to think of girls, but nothing happened. He felt absolutely nothing when he though of girls. He had tried really hard to think of girls and find them attractive, but it never worked. They tried to fix that at camp, but obviously it didn't work. He was reverting back to his old ways. He was going back to his sinful thinking. He couldn't let anyone what was happening. If they knew what was happening, they would surely send him away again. This time they would make sure it worked. He didn't want to go back he couldn't go back.

He felt himself starting to panic, and knew he was about to have a panic attack. This had already happened many times before. He didn't know what to do other than to cope the best way he knew how. He got out of the shower and grabbed a razor blade from the cupboard under the sink. He sat against the with his back against the wall and tears in his eyes. He took the blade in his hand and dragged it across his skin creating three lines on each of his arms. They started to bleed profusely, but he couldn't care less. He sat as the blood pooled on the ground. He hadn't cut deep enough to kill him, but there still was a lot of blood.

When his sobs had died down, he picked himself up and cleaned his arms off and disinfected them. He took the towel, which he kept under the sink for occasions just like this and cleaned up the crimson blood off the tile floor. He hid the towel and the blade and went back to his room. He knew that this was sinful and wrong, but it was the only thing that took away from the emotional pain he was in. It was his only way of coping.

He put his pajamas back on and went back to sleep. He hoped that he wouldn't have another dream like before. He fell into a dreamless sleep, with tear tracks still running down his face. He just wanted it to be over all over. If this was all that life had to offer, then he didn't want it.