Silenced- A Larry Stylinson Story

Chapter 35- POV Harry: The Aftermath

{Note: Though the last one was as well, this chapter is in Harry's point of view}

It's hot. So hot.

Sweat trickles from my forehead and mixes with salty tears, sliding down my face until it reaches the corner of my mouth, where it releases a tangy blossom of spiteful mocking onto my tongue. Running my tongue over my bottom lip, I cringe at the metallic taste of blood that leaks from my mouth.

I lift my head from the stairwell platform, which is scorching and filthy from the many feet that travel on it, as well as it's rarely being cleaned. 

My vision resigns itself as I attempt to sit up, and my figure slumps against the brick wall behind me, grateful for the sturdiness against my progressively frail body. I grit my teeth, head throbbing with a pain so violent I would give anything- anything- for it to end. 

The agonizing pain in between my legs shoots up me like fire and explodes within my head with a blinding whiteness. 

My eyes droop unwillingly and I am whisked away from reality once again as unconsciousness takes possession of my suffering frame.

__________

Sun pours into the stairwell from the tiny circular window seven feet above, stinging my eyes violently. The excruciating pain in my head has dulled to an intense pounding, and a harsh groan escapes my chapped lips. I peel my cheek off of the cool brick wall holding me up, and my brows furrow. Where am I? What happened?

I sit numbly for a moment, too overcome with pain and shock and confusion to think straight, before it all comes back to me. The kissing, the shoving, the forcefulness. The pain. The feeling of helplessness. 

I let it happen. I let him take advantage of me. 

With a thundering willpower, I pull myself to standing with help of the wall behind me; pain twisting through my whole body with a fiery throb. I need to get to my room. Using my trembling arms, I feebly begin to limp up the three flights of stairs. 

I can't risk anyone seeing me, especially Louis, by taking the elevator, and even though it takes a grueling hour to climb the stairs, accompanied irritatingly by an overwhelming portion of anguish, I make it to my room. Luckily, I still have the key to my room, which I had previously tucked into my shorts pocket, so I unlock the door, which is much harder than you may think with shaking hands, and hobble into the bathroom, where I begin running a scorching hot shower. 

To exhausted to undress myself, I sit in the bottom of the shower fully clothed, and let the searing water run over my curly hair that I once loved so much, and down my bruised body. Blood, washed away by the cleansing water, runs off of me down into the shower drain. I watch it cascade down the white tiles without blinking, mind numb to everything except my physical pain.

A tight pink shirt that hugs my stomach and back, the one that Louis loves so much, gives me the loathly sensation that I am trapped, stuck, imprisoned. I rip it off, not caring when I tear the seams, and fling it across the bathroom, doing the same with my tight, sopping wet jeans. They hit the floor with a splat, mocking my rage. I strip myself of any confining clothing, then, when I still feel caged, I take everything off, even my rings, standing up forcefully as I chuck them out of the shower, but on legs so wobbly it's hard to believe I will be able to stand for even a few minutes at a time. 

I pour an excess of soap into my cupped hand and wash my entire body, head to toe, cleaning every inch of me. After scrubbing myself vigorously for ten minutes, I still feel disgusting and vulgar, and so, so dirty. Panicked that I haven't washed myself well enough, my breathing speeds up, and my heart thumps thunderously in my chest, aching to be free.

I pour more soap out, and coat my entire body with it, scrubbing myself until my skin is red and raw, and choked sobs shake my thin figure so violently I nearly collapse onto the shower floor. 

But no matter how hard I scrub, I'm still repulsive- guilt and humiliation coat my skin thickly like mud and no matter how hard I scrub I can't wash it off- I just can't. After I've used up the entire bottle of soap, I hurl it at the wall and surrender to the ruthless sobs that make my stomach twist into vicious knots and choke me with trepidation.

I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I'm trapped, I'm stuck, I'm disgusting. Insults fly through my head and adhere themselves indestructibly to my body, ridiculing my mistakes, emphasizing my guilt, and doing every possible deed to make me hate myself fiercely.

Panic tears into my chest, ripping through every strand of hope I have left, every strand of dignity, of purity, of innocence, of happiness. 

My endless tears mix with the searing stream of water exiting the shower head, and, voice masked by the blasting music from the hotel room next to mine, I scream. Every inch of abhorrence I possess exits my throat, with a shrieking, guttural scream that shakes me to my core. 

I'm over it. I'm over trying so hard, working so diligently, climbing so high, and then, when everything actually seems okay, and I'm finally happy, I'm over falling again, and shattering, the delicate pieces of my anguished soul spewing wildly in every direction, and finding that I, once again, am lost to the wicked world.

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