Torn (Harry Styles)

What Hate Does.

Prim's P.O.V

"No..." I whisper. All this hate. They know. Everyone in the entire fucking world knows about my problem.

I've lost followers on twitter and Instagram, I've lost fans. I've gotten more hate them anyone else I know. There's even cruel hashtags trending about me.

I have a problem. An actual, harmful problem and this is how I'm treated. God, I wish I never became famous.

You know, fuck society.

I click the tweet button, and begin to type something out.

"I'm so sick of this world."

I click tweet and I quickly receive A TON of retweets, comment, and favourites.

I don't bother to read the comments, I just throw my phone down and fall on my bed. I'm home now. I haven't been home in almost a year. Louis and the other boys are in the living room, working on songs for their next album.

I pick my phone up and start to read some of the comments.

"We're all sick of you."

"You don't deserve a life."

"If you're so sick of it, go kill yourself!!"

Why would someone even say that? I began to ball my eyes out. I can't take this hate. I can't stand these people. I can't take no more running around, pretending I'm fine. I'm really not. I haven't been for three years.

The easiest thing to do is quit.

I pick up my phone and read the last tweet that popped up. "Why don't you just kill yourself?"

I click the reply button, "Maybe I will." The tweet practically blows up with my comments, cruel comment. I ball my eyes out for what seems forever.

I find my blade and put deep cuts till I can't feel my wrist, and I'm shaking.

I start to see white spots, but I notice the door open, then everything turns white, then fades into black.