OCD ➳ Larry Stylinson

Chapter Twenty Five: Love

(Pay attention to the time in the POV'S. Warning: May be triggering)

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Harry's POV, 12:56 AM

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My heart was banging against my chest. I couldn't breathe, or move, or anything. I wanted to scream. My eyes were fixed on Louis, and time froze. I couldn't. I couldn't. Without looking back, I left the house. The music was so loud. My thoughts were scrambled. Everything was a mess, and I just couldn't.

I didn't start to cry until I was safely sat in my car, and after the first tear fell, I was sobbing. How could I have trusted Louis? Why would he ever like me, I'm a freak.

I'm completely worthless.

Louis Tomlinson never liked me. Why would he? He had no reason to. There was nothing to like about me. Louis Tomlinson is a soulless human, and I should never have trusted him. I shouldn't have believed him. All those nice things, all the sweet touches. Every word he said to me was a lie. He promised. He promised.

I drove home as fast as I could, ignoring my phone, which buzzed a few times with a text message. I needed to get home, alone and away from everyone. The apartment was empty when I got there, and I went straight to the bathroom, not bothering to lock the front door.

I threw my phone aside and slid down to the cold tile. My head was pounding, and my hands were shaking. I thought about what my therapist always said, what she told me to do. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think it over. Find an alternative.

But you deserve it.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. Louis doesn't love me, Louis never loved me. It hurt to think, and I wanted to stop thinking. What was wrong with me? My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and my heart was beating too fast. Find an alternative. Anything to distract me from what I wanted to do. Anything. I sat there for a few minutes, breathing deeply. The image of Louis with that other boy kept flashing through my head. I haven't seen that boy before.

How could Louis do this?

Because I am worthless.

Alternatives, I repeated in my head. My therapist told me to write out my feelings when I wanted to cut. Write them out. It was simple, I could do it. But I would rather write them out on my skin, replacing a pen with a blade. No. No I can't. Standing up quickly, I grabbed a pen and notebook from my dresser, ignoring how my legs shook.

I opened to a page as I sat on my bed, feeling the smooth, empty paper with my fingertips. My hand was still shaking as I lowered the ink onto the white sheet, scribbling down the first word that came to my mind.

Louis.

That was all I was thinking. Louis, and how cruel he was. Louis, and how he never loved me. Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis. I wrote his name down over and over, each time my hand writing getting sloppier and sloppier. I made sure each word was spaced evenly, I made sure it was organized, but I my hand was shaking so much that I couldn't help how messy my writing became. I choked back my tears, and soon, the entire page was covered in the same name-the same name that now tasted like poison to me.

But it wasn't enough. I needed to feel something. I needed to physically feel how I felt inside; broken. It wasn't enough. I needed it, I needed it so badly. The thought of seeing my own blood, for the first time is months, ran chills down my spine. It was what I needed. It would heal me.

So I stumbled into my bathroom, the small dingy bathroom, and opened the cupboard. They thought I threw them out, everyone thought I had. I told them they were gone, but I kept them, stuffed behind toilet paper and old soap bottles. I pulled out the black bag, and inside it were my blades, shiny and clean. Picking up one of them, I gulped. I shouldn't be doing this, but oh God, I wanted to. I wanted, no, needed to see my blood, to feel the numbness. To have control.