Delirium || Harry Styles

Chapter 15: Bloodstream*

Just to make things clear, this book wasn't written to glorify self-harm neither was it written to glorify depression. I wanted something you could sink your teeth into, and if you've ever experienced depression, perhaps you're not as alone and worthless as you think you are. Stay strong. You are resilient as you are beautiful. I'm here for you if you need me x

Probably best if you read this with Deathbeds by Bring Me the Horizon playing or Save Me by 30 Seconds to Mars (it's in the media thingy, while Deathbeds is in the Delirium playlist, I'll put it on the external link).

This chapter was an extreme challenge to write. So yeah, please vote if you like it because it'll mean so so so much x

   

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HARRY'S POV

   

I was only half-conscious, but I could hear the loud thuds from the front door of my flat, banging like fucking crazy. I had somehow slipped in and out of consciousness. Constantly. And this time I woke from the clamorous banging and faint female voices. The owner to the voice I didn't know, but it was familiar to my ears. Somehow, the wires connecting my ears to my brain short-circuited, and I was unable to connect the voice with a name.

Sometimes, when I woke out of my consciousness, I sang myself a song to calm myself down. Like a lullaby to my own self. I had absolutely no idea how long I had been lying there, on the floor, my back against the cold bathroom wall, unmoving like a dead corpse.

All I knew was, the floor was terribly soaked.

In blood red.

They were seeping from the open wounds on my wrists. I spared myself nothing this time, cutting the sharpened metal deeper into skin and flesh. Blood flowed out from the laceration, its colour fresh and its temperature warm like how a body fluid should. But that was mere hours ago, and there I was looking at the dried and hardened blood on my wrists, thinking to myself: what a waste.

The knife was sitting like a lovely princess atop of the former white floor, I pushed it away from myself because my hands wanted to bring the edge to my own chest - and I was terrified.

A shade of thick crimson stained the frigid linoleum floor. What used to be porcelain white now turned into a blood-stained disaster - all sad, sticky and disgusting. Like myself.

What a waste.

Every single part of my body was singing along to the song of pain, and it was excruciating. I could still feel the wounds stinging and prickling my skin endlessly. And my brain was buzzing and my ears were half-deaf - it was a melodious choir of musical pain.

I had always dreamed of this moment, and I wanted to cherish it.

If I wanted to die, I wanted to feel it slowly, gradually. I wanted to feel the life draining out from the wounds I inflicted on myself, the unhurriedly slipping out of consciousness, slowly drifting into an aeon of slumber.

And I couldn't move, my body was frozen, remnants of my energy evaporated out from the lacerated scars. Breathing seemed like the most precious treasure in the world. Breathing without my lungs burning with every inhale seemed like a distant away.

But I didn't want to breathe.

I wanted to end.

The banging and female voice stopped, causing a peaceful silence in the air.

The moment was somehow narrated by a song stuck in my head.

   

"Hang me down . . ."