Don't Wake Me Up || Discontinued

Chapter Twenty - Disorders

[Goals for the chapter: READS: - 235 // VOTES - 3]

I gave Harry a glass of water, then out his toothbrush back in the little cup on the sink after rinsing it thoroughly. He drank it slowly, taking small sips at a time as I flushed the food-filled toliet water.

"I'm sick," he had mumbled, not looking at me. "No, you're not," I answered, grabbing his hand. The fact that he just ate with no issues - or so it seemed - and he was so quick to answer me that yes, he was sick, and no, he was not purging fully gave him away. He proceeded to try and tell me that he was indeed sick and all the sudden felt nauseous as he was taking a dump, but it was highly unbelievable. Finally, the truth - the one I knew since I caught him bent over the loo - came out.

Now, I had been in the place to first, not tell anyone, second, handle Harry as he tried once again to throw the rest of his snacks up, third, prevent him from doing it again and, all while, number four: handling myself and trying not to attempt suicide again.

I watched Harry as he took small, dainty sips of his water, his eyes looking tired. "Why?" I asked, as if there would every be a valid answer. We have both heard that too many times, whether it be Why did you do that? or Why did you cut yourself, Louis and/or Harry? or Why do you look so sad? or, the renound question of why's: Why do you like boys? Why are you gay? Why do you kiss? Why? Why? Why? The worst part was, with these why's, none of the answers were good enouh, if answered at all. Why did I do that? Because I can. Why did I cut myself? I was in pain, and still am. Why do I look sad? Maybe it's because I am. Yet, all these answers could hardlybe revealed, so the only propper answer for me was to shrug and pray none others followed. Why do you like boys? Because. I. Do. Quite frankly, I didn't know why. I don't know why I like boys, or Harry, I really just do. There's no ryhme or reason. Why do you breathe? Exactly.

"Because. . ." he said, voice trailing off, "I just, I really didn't know what to do."

"What do you mean?" I was confused, honestly. If he didn't know what to do, why that? He pushed himself against the wall, placing the cup next to him on the tile floor. I lowered the toilet seat and sat down, facing my boyfriend.

"I mean, with everything going on and me wanting to literally jump off a cliff, I went back to old habits." I stared, as if he had three heads. Old habits? Since when did he do that? How in bloody hell did it not know?

"Old. . .?" I asked.

"Right before i found out about your, um," he said, pulling his fingers across his own wrist. I nodded, thinking back to the day I, for some reason, remembered so vividly. We went to this Italian place, and I was paying. Louis had ordered some sort of pasta, and we just finished eating. He had cleared his plate, and finished a glass and a half of ice water. HE refused to drink anything else. He took his napkin off of his lap, looking at me. I ran my fingers of the ridges of the cuts under my sleeve, on my wrist. He said he needed to go to the bathroom, then got up and left the table. I rolled up my sleeves, revealing the red lines and scars, then fanned myself with my hands. It was warm, and I had long sleeves - not something I miss whatsoever. He came back about five minutes later, then downed the other half of his glass of water, plus an ice cube.

I watched him, now, as he drank his water, stikcing his tongue into the cup as tears fell from his eyes, just as the water droplets fell nto his tongue. "I see," I said, rubbing my scars with two fingers, "How long did you do it, that I didn't know about?"

"Why does it matter?" he asked, placing his cup on the floor again and pulling his knees to his chest.

"I need to know hoq long I was a bad boyfriend and didn't know my baby was hurting," I said, looking into his forest-green eyes.

"You never were bad, Louis, I was just really good at hiding it."

"I remeber that time at the Italian place," I said, my own eyes tearing up now. I wondered if he remembered it, too. If i wasn't the only one who, for some reason, remembered how he left to usw the restroom.

"I remember you wouldn't take your damn sweater off," he said, looking at the ceiling, "And how you kept your hands under the table, but then pulled your sleeves over your hands when you put them back on the tabel. I thought you were just shy, or anxious. I never would've guessed. . ."

"Me neither," I said before he could say more, eyeing the toothbrush that was once at Harry's side.

"I'm proud of you, LouBear," he said, crawling out of his ball and kneeling in front of me. Oh, how many times we've been in this position*. I smiled.

"Why?" I cocked my head, looking at Harry.

"Because, no more long sleeves, yet. . .I'm still here, again, bet over this thing." He tapped the seat below me, then kissed my knuckles.

"Oh, well, I couldn't have done it without you," I said, squeezing his hand tighter. This couldn't have been any more true. Of course, part of why I started in the first place was because of the hate we got because of our love, but our love is what saved me, what helped me stop. After all, it wasn't Harry's fault I started - it was the media. It was his, though, that got me to stop. I couldn't thank him enough for that. Now, it was my turn. And I'm going to do anything and everything I can to help Harry get over his bulimia.

 

[A/N: The * wasn't a typo, it was just in case you were confused, the meaning would follow.

*BJ's, for lack of better word. Yay for Gay.

Sorry I didn't update, my head was hurting but that's no excuse: my head hurts everyday, basically. I was lazy, honestly.

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