Note To Self (Harry Styles AU)

Chapter Eleven.

It took Harry an hour and a half to walk home by himself. He didn't know exactly which way he should go, so he used the GPS feature on his phone to help guide him. The entire time was spent mentally beating himself up over what had happened. He was so angry with himself. Rage filled his body, but it was directed at nobody but himself. He was in disbelief that what had happened was actually real. Aubry had kissed him. She'd given him his very first kiss, and he ruined it. He couldn't believe he'd ruined his first kiss by having such little self control.

His legs were so tired when he'd gotten home that lugging himself up the stairs was a lot harder than he would've liked it to be. Then again, it wasn't the first time that night something was hard when he didn't want it to be. He groaned at the reminder.

He made it down the hall into his bedroom before shutting the door and crossing the room to plop down on his bed, giving his exhausted body a rest. His mind didn't rest. Thoughts still swarmed his brain, plaguing him with nothing but negative thoughts and feelings toward himself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His hands raised to cover his face and he groaned into them as his thoughts began to drown him and swallow him whole into the darkest corners of his mind.

"If I could just learn to control myself, this would've never happened," he thought to himself.

The same thoughts that always haunted him surfaced in his mind, the ones he thought of as internalized bullies. They were name callers, and they always said the same things. No matter how many times he'd done it to himself, it always dragged him down and made him feel horrible.

Stupid. Worthless. Waste of space, good-for-nothing, idiot.

He hated himself more than anything. The voices in his head, the things they said to him, were all the things he believed about himself. It all came from his own brain, triggered by his anger and self-loathing, so he believed it to be true. He felt it, and therefore it must be real. To him, he really was stupid, worthless, and a waste of space.

He was angry with himself. Practically seething by time he'd fully depreciated his already extremely low feelings of self-worth.

It only got worse when he thought about what Aubry must have thought about him then. After what had happened and what he'd done, he was certain he'd given her the impression that he was nothing but a pervert. He felt like one, anyway.

Self control. Why can't I just have some fucking self control?

His hand flew down to harshly smack against his thigh and his fingers clutched onto it roughly, creating a dull sense of pain though his jeans. It wasn't enough. The article of clothing served only as an unwanted obstruction that he needed to get rid of immediately. He unbuttoned them and sat up to tug them down his legs, flinging them across the room carelessly as his attention turned back to his thighs.

He poked at the discolored flesh of his left thigh. It was bruised, a bluish green hue that had begun to change from the dark purple it originally was as it healed. He felt slight pain as his fingers prodded at the self-inflicted injury, but not enough to satisfy him.

His nails dug in and he scraped and clawed at the skin on both thighs, leaving raised red trails behind. He pinched at his right thigh, pulling the skin and twisting it painfully to leave the normally milky white skin tinged with a dull, irritated, shade of pink. It still wasn't enough.

He punched himself. The slap of his fist against his skin was heard throughout the room and he let out an exhale in response to the pain that created an ache deep within his femur bone. He drew his fist back and did it again. And again. And again. He didn't stop until his fist ached and he couldn't punch as hard anymore, and that's when he resorted to using the back of his hairbrush.

The contact of the hairbrush against his skin was much louder, and far more painful than his fists were. The blows his legs took were repetitive, he didn't give himself time in between to cope with the pain before he did it to himself again.

Tears welled in his eyes and made his vision blurry, but they weren't tears of pain or sadness, they were from anger and self-hatred. He was so angry his body couldn't handle it all and the wet hot tears it produced ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the injury he was giving himself.

Winnie, who he hadn't noticed was sleeping in her bed in the corner, was woken up from the noise and crossed the room to jump up on the bed when she sensed his emotional distress. She began whimpering and licking the tears off his face, body pushing against his in attempt to comfort him, but it only frustrated him more. She was in the way. He wanted to hurt himself and she was making it more difficult for him to, and in his rage, he shoved her away.

She wouldn't stay away. No matter how many times he pushed her, she'd come right back and cry into his face as she licked him, desperately trying to put an end to the emotional turmoil he was experiencing. He turned his body away, facing his back toward her so he could continue, but that didn't stop her from putting her head over his shoulder and reaching to kiss him more.

It made him cry harder and he beat himself with the hairbrush even more, which was the exact opposite of what Winnie wanted. She whined more and hopped off the bed to force herself between his legs, somehow managing to knock the brush out of Harry's hand when she did and it slid on the carpet to underneath the bed, stopping him from hurting himself more.

He was frustrated at first, but it was ended with a sudden wave of sadness when he looked down at his dog who was just as upset as he was. She licked at his leg, which was an angry red color and already beginning to bruise. It was hot to the touch and his skin stung so badly he felt like it was going to fall off.

He felt a strange sense of accomplishment when he saw what he had done. He'd successfully given himself what he thought he deserved, and that was really the sole reason why he did what he did. He liked to torture himself. He liked to inflict pain. He liked to get payback. He felt like his body had betrayed him, so he betrayed it back.

He watched as Winnie licked and licked at the injury, trying her very hardest to make it better, but he couldn't even feel her tongue through the intense stinging sensation that wouldn't let up. It was as if even though he had stopped beating himself, the pain of what he'd done still lingered. That was somehow satisfying to him.

Even after he'd settled back into bed and his tears had dried, Winnie never calmed back down. She could sense the negative feelings that still lingered within his mind and body. She still laid as closely to him as possible, still whimpered in sadness with any movement he made, and refused to fall asleep even after they laid together for hours.

She followed him when he'd gotten up to go to the bathroom and refused to let him go privately. She sat next to the toilet with him and followed him back to his room when he was finished. When he curled up in his blankets, she laid behind him with her head rested on his hip. She never left his side that night.

"Note to self: The body and mind are one. If you can control your mind, you can control your body. And vice versa."

>< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< ><

:((((((((((( That makes me sad

Thanks for reading! Oh, and for the record, Harry doesn't have tattoos in this story. I feel it doesn't match his character. No tiger on that bruised thigh of his.

Please vote :D