Silenced- A Larry Stylinson Story

Chapter 16- POV Louis: Never Knew

{TW: Self-Harm}

The numbness that has possessed me for the past month is gone, and replaced with an emotional pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. A deep, sorrowful throb that gnaws at my heart. A pain that makes me long for the complete numbness I once despised. My heart aches so strongly it physically hurts.

All I want is to be with Harry.

I want to kiss his delicate chapped lips.

I want to see his beautiful body and run my hands down his buff arms.

I want to twist his gorgeous curls in a way that always makes him smile.

I want to laugh with him until my stomach hurts and cry with him until we run out of tears.

I want to see how his hands shake nervously when I kiss him.

I want to be in his presence and soak up his love.

I want to gaze into his lovely green eyes and try to figure out what he is thinking about, because he seems to never stop thinking.

I want to laugh with him when he trips on his own two feet, which happens more than you might think.

I want to see his shining smile where his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

I want to giggle at how his nose wiggles gently when he talks.

Is that too much to ask? It seems as such, judging by the fact that he is currently four hours away at an all-boys boarding school and I am here in Doncaster and we are both suffering beyond belief.

I never knew love could hurt this much, but here I am, sitting on my bedroom floor, sobbing frantically with my phone pressed to my heart since it's the only connection I have to Harry, though I can't even call him with it. The pain in my heart is unbearable and my shoulders are quaking forcefully with sobs. My puffy eyes burn so much from crying that I can barely see.

The light of my life, the one person that makes my heart feel full of sunshine and happiness and rainbows... is so, so far away.

I suddenly get a dark urge. An urge I haven't gotten for two years. An urge I thought I had gotten past, one that I thought I would never again have to face. Hands uncontrollably trembling, I turn my arms over so my wrists are facing upwards. I pull up my long sleeves- the only length of sleeve I ever wear- to reveal the jagged scars that trail down my wrists.

Two years ago, I was severely depressed. It was a dark time for me, and, long story short, I ended up cutting myself a few times. The ugly scars on my wrists bring me back so vividly to that time, and consequentially I avoid looking at them at all costs (Hence my closet consisting entirely of long-sleeve shirts). I worked for months to get out of that depression, and eventually I succeeded.

Then, I met Harry, who I fell madly in love with in such a short period of time, and then he left and now I am more miserable than I ever was during that depression, even in my darkest hours.

Tears drip down my cheeks and land on my scars, which I gently trace my fingers down. My thumbs aggressively begin to rub the scars, bringing back the need- the aggressive, overpowering, infuriating need- to cut.

I am pinching and scratching my scars violently, and though I like the pain it brings me, and I feel a desperate longing for more.

I crave intensely for the pain my body feels to match the immense pain my heart is throbbing with. 

Then maybe it will even out and hurt less.

I trudge grimly into the bathroom and sit on the cold, tiled floor, which is probably extremely dirty, but I don't care. I have bigger things to worry about.