OCD ➳ Larry Stylinson

Chapter Three: This Is What I Deserve

He went to his classroom, waving, and I went to mine.

Even if we didn't really talk today, something about him is just so... intriguing. Not only does he actually want to spend time with me, or at least I hope he does, but he's just so perfect. When he smiles, when he laughs, the fact that he's clean and symmetrical, it's all perfect.

I don't always look at boys this way. I mean, I don't really know my sexuality, considering I've never really found anyone who appealed to me in the slightest. But then there's Louis. I've known him for 2 days, and I think I already have a crush. Being gay never bothered me, it doesn't really matter who you love. But I need to find out more about this boy before I jump to conclusions. And it's not like he'd ever like me back in that way, he's probably straight. He's gorgeous. He could have any girl in the school in a second.

I'm thinking about this too much.

*

That night I laid in bed, my hands on my stomach, eyes closed, thinking.

I like to imagine what my life would be like if I was normal. If I didn't wash my hands for two minutes every time I touch something unfamiliar, if I didn't feel the need to repeat tasks I've already done, if I didn't stutter when in an awkward situation. Would I have friends? Would I have a girlfriend? Or, would I have Louis? I'd want to have him. I would be able to hold him without having a major panic attack. That would be nice. Just being able to touch him would be a miracle.

I imagined myself kissing him, our lips moving to the rhythm of a song playing softly in the background. He would be sitting on my lap, his legs wrapped around my torso. I'd have my hands running through his soft brown fringe, muttering his name softly.

If only that was possible. There's about a million things standing in the way.

One being that no one loves me. My mom barley even talks to me, my dad left when I was seven, and my sister talks to me about every other month. I always blamed myself for my dad leaving, mostly because it was the reason. Seven was the age when it all started. When I started rearranging the house until it was perfectly symmetrical and organized, when I started pushing in my chair five times before finally feeling satisfied or turning off and on the light before I could leave a room. It was when I started having panic attacks and crying at random times. My dad hated anyone that wasn't normal. He'd probably kill me if he found out I was having these thoughts about a boy. So, he left. He packed his bags, and left. My mother and sister cried, and I locked myself in my room. I was smart enough to understand what was going on, I just couldn't figure out why.

Of course, now I know.

My arm suddenly started itching, and I began to scratch it. My eyes were still shut tight, and I didn't realize how hard I was scratching my arm until I felt a sharp pain and looked down to see ruby blood oozing out of a recent cut on my left arm. I sighed as I watched the blood drip down my pale arm. The scars on my arm weren't that visible, but they were there, an even amount on each one. Staring at the scars, I was reminded why they're there in the first place.

Because you're worthless.

Because no one loves you.

No matter what, I'll always be that one guy, the guy who no one talks to. That'll always be me.

I'm not sure how, but I ended up on the white tile floors of my bathroom, knee's to my chest, blade in my hand. It had only been a week since I had cut, and it's not like I was trying to stop.

I pulled the piece of metal across my arm slowly, making sure I didn't mess up. I winced as I felt the stinging sensation corrupt through me. Red liquid poured down, hitting the spotless tiles. I'll need to clean that up, I thought, finishing the thin line. I then made the same cut on my right arm, same spot, same depth, same everything.

I looked down at my work, frowning slightly. This is what I deserve. This is what I need.

Blood hit the floor steadily, each drop being a reminder of how imperfect I was.

I stood, shaking slightly. I only made two cuts, but they were pretty deep, and blood was still rolling down my pale arms.

I turned on the water in my sink, and stuck one of my bloody arms under the faucet. It burned, badly. I had to grit my teeth to hold back a scream. It took a while, but the burning eventually turned into a soothing sensation. The blood turned the water pink. I felt tears prick my eyes, but held them back.

This is what I deserve.

This is what I need.

.

.

A/N

Ok, like, I don't even know what happened with this chapter. I knew I was going to make Harry self harm, but, like, this was really depressing. I was listening to such a depressing playlist and just let my hands do the typing. So ANYWAY, sorry if that was shit.

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