Recover (Larry Stylinson AU)

Chapter Five; Realization

"Don't fall into the trap of pretending everything's fine when you know it isn't."

- Anonymous 

Harry's positive attitude was short-lived, because the closer he got to home, the more he remembered the faces of his bullies at school, and their taunting words. He wanted to crawl in a hole and disappear. He wished he could grow smaller and smaller until he was so small, so tiny, that no one would look at him, or pay him any attention. 

He just wanted to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?

When he finally reached his house, he thanked Louis, then got out of the car, trying to hide his blush when he nearly tripped and Louis laughed at him. Of course Louis would laugh. He thought that Harry was a kid. He thought that Harry was an idiot. Louis was probably just like the rest of them, except he was better at hiding it.

Why did Harry always do this to himself? Why did he get his hopes up? There was no point. He wasn't going to get better. He wasn't going to help his mum and sister. Who was he kidding? He was worthless, and he was a failure, and he was never going to get anywhere in life, no matter what those cheesy motivational speakers at school said.

When he opened the door and walked inside, he wordlessly tossed the milk on the counter, muttering a greeting to his mum and Gemma before running up the stairs to his room. He knew that he was being very obvious; his nose was puffy and his eyes were watery, although they hadn't shed any tears yet. But he didn't care. So what if they knew that he was upset? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Why wasn't he good? Why couldn't he do something right? Why was he always messing up and doing stupid things? What was it about him that made people hate him so much? Was it the clothes? The hair? The eyes? There had to be something he was doing wrong, some reason for everyone's hatred towards him.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell and shout and cry and stomp and throw himself everywhere but he couldn't, because his family was downstairs and he couldn't let them know, so he flung himself on the bed and sobbed silently into his pillow, because what else could he do, other than lie here and feel sorry for himself?

And then, almost as if a lightbulb turned on over his head, he realized that he could do something else after all. Frantically, almost desperately, he tumbled out of the bed and searched under it for his box, and when he found it, he grinned in victory. 

He fumbled with the lid a little before frustratingly pulling on it, causing it to fly across the room, but he couldn't have cared less, because a much more pressing image was in front of him. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry because it had been so bloddy long, and he didn't even care that it hadn't really been that long, only about three days, because it felt so long, and he couldn't go without it, couldn't go a single minute without thinking about it.

So, he ruined his skin with his razor. He cut deeper than he'd ever dared before, going dizzy from the loss of blood, but thinking that he quite liked the feeling. He re-opened old scars and made new ones, completely losing track of time. He didn't ignore the pain like many did. Instead, he focused on it. The reason he harmed himself wasn't only to forget his problems. It was also his punishment for not being good enough. He deserved to feel the pain. He deserved everything that he got. 

Gay fairy.

Tears stung his eyes, but he didn't wipe them away. He let them tumble down his cheeks. He knew that somewhere inisde, he wasn't good enough. And it bugged him because he was trying so very hard, but he just wasn't getting there. But, at the same time, he knew that he would never get there. He would never live up to everyone's expectations, he would never save his family from the financial crisis they were facing. He wouldn't get any better than he was. There would be no  feelings deep within him to start up and suddenly attempt to get him to try to work harder--harder to be better.