If Only You Knew (Larry Stylinson AU)

Chapter 8

Quick warning! If any of you have a problem with descriptive gore then I would suggest skipping the first few paragraphs until you see the line of ******* 

Sorry this took so long, hope it's good enough to sate your needs for a while because I won't be able to update for a few weeks :s I'm going on vacation and won't have any time to write! Sorry lovelies! 

******************************{~~~~Chapter 8~~~}***********************************

Things were getting worse. The thoughts of Harry’s scars were infiltrating his mind, taking over and pushing all other important things into the dust. It had only been a few days since Louis had seen them but his demented mind was already twisting the pictures, his memory making Harry’s arm to appear grotesque with the dreaded word ‘FAG’ written in spindly, twisted lines that seemed to grow bigger, to take up more room on his arm until they were practically spilling over. There was no space left for the scars now and they spun around his wrist, covering his whole lower arm in disturbing red lines. The lines grew deeper and blood began falling in puddles from his cuts, appearing as large drops almost like rain. The dripping sound of blood splattering the floor resonated through Louis’ mind as he watched the thick red liquid seep up Harry’s arm and down to his fingertips, spreading languidly across his body until his whole form was no longer Harry but a faceless figure soaked and seeping with blood. Words, the same spidery font as the scars, slowly ripped their way through Harry’s chest, white letters appearing through the thick layer of blood to spell out the words, “YOUR FAULT.”

Louis sprung up in bed, a strangled scream ripping itself from his lips. He panted heavily, hand clutching his fast beating heart. His room was still dark and the eerie shadows cast across his walls and ceiling sent chills up his spine as he struggled to reach for his lamp, flicking it on. His breaths came out shaky and he kept his eyes wide open trying to rid his mind of the images that still resided there, making reappearance each time he closed his eyes. He could still see them, the words that made his stomach lurch with an incurable guilt, as if they were painted on the back of his eyelids. It was his fault that Harry was hurting, that Harry has been hurting. He couldn’t sleep anymore, not without the same terrible nightmare plaguing his mind and rendering him weak and unable to muster up the courage to close his eyes. He didn’t eat as much, the clawing guilt working at his stomach and making him feel nauseous, never hungry. He knew people were beginning to see something was wrong, he didn’t see how anyone could miss it. He was pale with terrible bags under his eyes and he lacked his usual energy. He almost wished someone would mention it, force him to talk about it and spill his dark secrets about Harry. He was torn between the undeniable instinct to keep these things to himself and the desperate desire to spill his deepest secrets to someone until his heart was open and weak. He wanted someone he trusted to listen and comfort him and maybe mend his heart when it was at its weakest point. He wondered if this was how Harry had felt from the very beginning.

And look at how Louis had treated him.

The guilt that never truly subsided returned with a vengeance and he stumbled out of his bed, hands over his stomach, clawing at his stomach until it was red and raw. He needed this to stop; he couldn’t live like this anymore. He rushed to the bathroom, not bothering to be quiet, and fell to his knees in front of the toilet. His hands clutched the edges of the toilet seat until his knuckles turned white and he forced himself to gag, wanting a way to rinse the guilt out of him. At three o’clock in the morning after a horrible nightmare such as his, throwing up his guilt felt as good a plan as any. He felt the bile rise in his throat and testily shoved a finger into his mouth until he could feel the burning acid running quickly up towards the back of his throat. Leaning over the toilet he heaved and heaved, mostly dry due to the lack of foods in his body. When he was sure he could do it no more, when exhaustion over took him, he scrambled to his feet and gripped the sink, staring at his pale, skinny form, the vile taste of vomit still lingering in his mouth. “This is who you are,” he said, meaning for his voice to come out forceful but not too surprised when it barely topped a whisper. “You are a disgusting human being and you deserve every bit of this for what you did to him.” Louis could feel tears prickling in his eyes, his throat burning with the need to cry but he didn’t let himself. Not yet. He glared at himself for a moment longer before squeezing his eyes shut, unable to look at himself any longer.