My Babysitters Are Idiots // One Direction [Book 1: Idiot Series]

Chapter Nineteen - Don't Let Me Go

Mica.

I woke up still on the couch, my head resting on Zayn's shoulder. Niall and Louis were all cuddled up together and Liam was resting on Zayn's other shoulder. Harry was nowhere in sight.

I quietly got off the couch, careful not to wake the four sleeping boys. Smiling as I took another look at them, I turned away and walked towards the stairs. I walked up the stairs and down the hall towards Harry's room, sighing before knocking lightly on his door.

"Mmph!" I heard and a small bang came afterwards. "Come in."

I opened the door and pushed it in slightly, poking my head in. Harry was standing there in an over sized sweater and boxers. While the other boys were in shorts, just shorts, and I was in a crop top and shorts. The heat was unbearable, so why was Harry wearing a sweater?

"Are you cold?" I asked, walking in and closing the door behind me.

"A-a little..." he trailed off, sitting down on his bed. I stared at him, watching his every move. He began scratching his upper arm, hard.

"Itchy?" I giggled. He nodded lightly, no smile or happiness found on his face. "Harry?"

He looked up at me with a questioning look. I stared into his eyes. They weren't filled with there usual green happiness, but dark sadness.

"What's wrong, Harry?" I said quietly as I knelt down on the ground in front of him. The minute I said that, he dropped his head, biting his lip. I stared at him. His hands went over his face and he shook his head.

"I don't know anymore," he sobbed. I stood up and sat next to him, wrapping my arm around his shoulder and pulling him closer to me. His head rested on my shoulder as he sniffled and cried quietly.

I looked at him and sighed. His eyes were red and his chapped lips were parted, small whimpers coming from them. His face was flushed and he looked like he was sweating in that sweater.

"Harry?" I whispered.

"Mmm?" he mumbled, barely audible. I sat him up and looked at him. Even though Harry was a couple years older then I am, I needed to be the mature one right now and help him with whatever the fuck it was.

"Take off your sweater." I stared him dead in the eyes. He broke the eye contact and looked down at his lap. He didn't say or do anything for an awkward seventy seconds before shaking his head.

"I can't," he whispered. I stared at him in disbelief. He had done it again.

"Harry..." I whispered, making him look up at me. "Please, I... I want you to be okay," I said, tears welling in my eyes. Harry stared at me and slumped back, nodding a little.

I moved closer to him, grabbing the bottom of his sweater. Small whimpers escaped his lips as I pull it up and off his head.

Once I saw his body, I felt as if a hand was stuck down my throat and my heart was pulled out. Harry was bad, far worse than myself. And I never really thought he'd go that far and do that much, but looking at him now; I knew there was something going on with him that I missed.

He had small burns and scars all over his torso and chest. His arms were covered in scars and some evident fresh cuts. He looked as if he had been through war; and he had, and it was clearly with himself.

The sight killed me. 

I had scars on my arms and some burns and scars on my thighs, but I was never this bad. And it simply hurt me to see someone like this--especially Harry.