OCD ➳ Larry Stylinson

Chapter Twelve: Backfire

(This chapter contains selfharm)

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(I accidentally published this as it's own story for a minute, sorry)

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Harry's POV

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The ride home made me ache. Not physically, but my mind hurt. Louis hadn't talked to me since that morning, and he'd completely ignored me the rest of the day, even when I called his name. But worst of all, I saw him with Zayn. They were talking and, well, acting like friends. Louis became friends with the one person on this earth I couldn't stand.

I hated Louis, I did. He played me. He pretended to be my friend this whole time and made me even fall in love with him, just to break my heart.

But at the same time I didn't hate him. At the same time I wanted to kiss him and tell him how much I loved him, but my hatred towards him was overpowering.

Jumping out of my car, I nearly ran inside. The front door slammed behind me and I began to sprint upstairs, but not before I was stopped by my mother's drunken voice.

"Where d'ya think you're going?" she spat. I turned around to see her, no expression on my face.

She stepped up to me, a lazy Smile on her smeared lipstick.

"I thought you were going to be hanging with your friend after school." she slurred, putting air quotations around 'friend'.

I had previously told her I was going to study with Louis after school to work on a maths project together, but he never showed up. Big surprise.

"He-he canceled." I hoped for the best as the words stuttered out, but my heart rate increased noticeably.

I was greeted with a sharp slap to the face, in the same spot as last time, but not with the same amount of strength. I let out a barely audible screech and clenched my jaw shut.

"Want to repeat that?" her breathe reeked of alcohol.

"He... Canceled." I forced myself to say in a shaky voice, trying to stop the stutter.

She laughed.

"I knew you didn't have any friends." that's what made me start to cry.

As tears began to run down my face, I cupped my sore cheek and began to run up the stairs, her laughter echoing in my ears.

I skipped the top step like I always did and ran into my room. Without a second thought, I ran into my overly clean bathroom.

My thumbs stumbled with my phone trying to open Louis' contact. Without thinking, I sent him a text.

'Do you still like me?'

I cried harder as I pressed send, not knowing if he'd even answer.

But within seconds, he did.

'No. You're a freak and I don't want anything to do with you.'

That's what sent me over the edge. I shook with a sob and dropped my phone. He doesn't love me. Of course he doesn't. Everything he said and did was a lie.

Of course it was

You're a fag

Kneeling down, I opened a cabinet to search for what I needed. Pulling out a small black bag, I sighed. I dug through it until I found it, a small silver blade. Twirling it in my fingers, I took a shaking breath. I sat Indian style on the cold tile. Yanking the sleeve of the blue sweatshirt I was wearing up, I admired the scars that lined both my arms. Each one had a story. Some were recent and still in the healing process, but most were old and were a white/purple colour. My fingers delicately traced down one arm until I reached an open space of pale skin. Tears rolled down my face and some collided with the floor, but I didn't care. Placing the blade over my new cutting zone, I slowly struck it across, my breath hitching. As the thin line began to appear, more tears fell. The new cut was a light pink colour and drops of blood slipped through the open flesh. I did the same on the other arm.