{Harry's POV}
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A distant beeping noise is what brought me back to reality. My eyes were sealed shut with a layer of sleep, and all I wanted to do was pry them open, but my muscles were too weak, and I fell back into a blurry sleep.
The second time when I woke up, I actually stayed. My eyes remained shut, but I was still awake. I still heard the beeping noise, and my ears ringed from the sound. Something soft was in my hand, something warm and soft. It was comforting. I really tried hard to open my eyes, but just breathing was difficult at the moment. When the ringing subsided, just barley, I heard the sound of sniffling, like someone was crying. I really needed to open my eyes.
With all the effort I could muster, I pried my exhausted eyes open, to find Louis sitting in a chair, crying and holding my hand. The sight was shocking at first, and it took long time for my eyes to focus. His head was down, so the chance of him seeing me awake was unlikely. I didn't like seeing him upset. The room I was in was white, with creepy pictures of happy children hung on the wall. It smelled of chemicals and Latex Gloves. Glancing towards the beeping noise, my fears were confirmed-I was in a hospital.
Gathering as much strength as I could, I moved a few of my fingers to notify Louis of my presence. He looked up immediately, and his frown shifted into what looked like a sad smile, the kind of smile you'd have at a funeral when someone says something funny in their death-speech. But I wasn't dead not yet.
"Harry," he muttered, holding my hand tighter and brushing a piece of my fringe out of my eye. My vision was still slightly blurry, but I could see his damp cheeks clearly.
"Why are you crying?" I asked, my voice dry and dense. Louis shook his head and wiped a few stray tears from his eyes.
"I'm just happy to see you awake." I knew he was lying, bluntly lying, but I didn't say anything. I was really confused. Why was I in a hospital? Why was Louis crying? I barely remembered anything. All I knew was my head was pounding and my arms felt numb.
"Why am I here?" I slurred out, looking around the room. Louis inhaled deeply.
"You, um, hurt yourself... again. You passed out. Your mum found you unconscious," he said to me in a quiet voice, his tone soft. I loved his voice, but his tone made everything so utterly fake, like it was painful for him to talk. I looked down at my arms. Thick white bandages covered both of them. Memories flooded back to me in mass, hitting me with an even more painful headache.
"I'm sorry," I said to the older after a pause. I remembered pain, regret, and then pure darkness. I couldn't leave Louis.
He shook his head again. "No, it's okay, don't be sorry," there was a pause, "The doctors say you're lucky to be alive." His head was down, but I could see the tears that continued to roll down his blushing face.
"I didn't mean to," I replied honestly, remembering how I wanted to stop, but I just couldn't. His head lifted up, and I could clearly see how red his face was from the crying.
"Please don't cry," I said to him, feeling beyond guilty. My head hurt, and watching Louis cry over something that was entirely my fault made my heart physically hurt. He rubbed his thumb lightly across my hand, sending shivers down my spine. "I just, I," Louis was at a loss of words.
"I like you, Harry, so much, and I can't live with the fact that at any moment you might hurt yourself," my eyes fell. No. Louis doesn't want to be with me. He can't handle how unstable I am.
No. Please no.
"Please don't leave me," my lip trembled slightly. All I wanted was for Louis to stay, to hold my hand. To be with me. Louis's hand tightened and his eyes went wide.
"No, no that's not what I meant! I won't leave. Never. Not again. I'm staying right here."
I inhaled deeply. "Promise?"
"Promise."
*
"Mr. Styles, please answer the question," I fidgeted in the brown colored, knock off leather chair. Looking around the room, I wanted to scream. Shelves were stacked high with books and the walls were scattered in posters that had 'encouraging' words on them. In one corner, a dog poster with "Believe In yourself" written in thick white letters, and in another corner, a girl playing football with "You'll Go Far" on it.
But it was unorganized. Terribly, horrendously unorganized. The books were crooked, and the posters were hung with different colored thumb tacks. I hated the room. And I hated the women sat in front of me, in an even browner, uglier chair. Her hair was tied in a high knot, her dress suit pressed and the most unflattering shade of purple.
"Mr. Styles," the therapist persisted. Her name was Veronica. I raised my eyebrows. "What?"
She scribbled something down on the clipboard in her hands. "I asked you why you have a bruise on your left eye," there was a clicking noise; a clock. I counted each tick, too bored and tired and beyond frustrated to deal with the lady. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she writes something down again.
"You're clearly hurt, and the doctors said you had it when you arrived, 3 days ago," she said smoothly, her tone flat. I shake my head.
"I'm fine," I said, looking around. There was a tissue box next to me, which was crooked. I reached over to straighten it out.
"Harry, it was an agreement. You would go to therapy with me every day for 2 months as the alternative to rehab. You need to answer my question, I'm just trying to help," said Veronica. I dismissed what she said, instead picking at the end of my shirt. I didn't like her trying to pry into my mind. I didn't like her.
"Who hurt you?" she continued. I shook my head again.
Don't tell her.
Don't.
The ticking noise was annoying. I hated that clock. With each click it made, my jaw tightened. How could I tell her that the reason for my black eye was my own mother? Why couldn't she be like Louis? Louis never talked about all my bruises, he just held my hand and told me I was beautiful. I wanted Louis to be here, to get this lady away from me.
"Mr. Styles," her voice was stern.
"I don't want to talk about it," I said back, feeling my breathing intensify.
"You have to, it's for your own good," she said. My mind hurt. Everything hurt. I wanted to cut, to feel the relief of drawing blood from myself, but the bandages on my arms and thighs reminded me that I couldn't.
"Harry-"
"Stop!" I yelled before she could finish her sentence. I didn't want to talk, and I didn't want her to talk either. My breathing was getting heavy, heavier than it should've been. The clock ticked again. I wanted to scream.
"Please, just tell me who hurt you. Was it a bully at school? Was it your boyfriend?"
"Louis would never hurt me!" I screamed at her, wanting to cry for some reason. It hurt.
"Who, then?"
I screamed. My throat burned and my head felt dizzy. Sinking down into the chair, I cried. I wasn't sobbing, just crying. I couldn't catch my breath, and with each gasp of air, my lungs hurt. Louis. I needed Louis. I hate this place. I hate this women.
I want to die.
*
{Louis's POV}
"Does he get panic attacks often?" asked Harry's therapist, her voice low.
"There's only one that I know of," I replied after a second, picking at my nails and not making eye contact with the tall women.
"Do you know if his home environment is safe?" she asked, setting her clipboard down and looking at me sincerely. I bit my lip in thought.
"I haven't been inside his house, but his mum answered the door once, and she was, uh, rude... and smelled strongly of alcohol," I mumbled, not wanting to screw up Harry's life even further, but feeling like I didn't have a choice. She nodded her head slowly. I could tell why Harry didn't like her. Her pointy nose and beady eyes stared into my soul, digging up as much dirt on Harry as she could.
"Your boyfriend has some serious issues, some that will never go away," I wanted to tell her that he wasn't really my boyfriend, but I liked the title, so I didn't comment on it.
"Are you aware of his OCD?" she asked, not missing a beat. I nodded my head. "And you're aware of his panic attacks?" I nodded my head once more. She just straightened her posture. "He is very unstable."
Unstable. I didn't like that. Something about the way she said it, like it's poison in her mouth.
"I believe that his situation at home is the cause of his bruises," the therapist said. Recalling all of the bruises I had seen on the younger boy, I nodded my head. I only ever commented on them once, at the coffee shop, but his reaction warned me not to mention then again. I felt like an idiot.
Of course it was his mother.
Glancing to the left, through the door window, I saw Harry in his hospital bed, fast asleep. After his apparent panic attack in the therapy room, he fell unconscious. They said his brain was 'working too hard', and he needed a break. Same as the first time. The incident earned him another two days at the hospital. It had already been three days, and after that he wasn't supposed to return to school for another two weeks, meaning that my time with the younger lad was limited.
"We'll need to bring in his mother for questioning," said the therapist in a police-like tone. I nodded my head. Harry looked so fragile. Why him?
*
I was sitting in the chair next to Harry. Liam was there too, reading a text book titled 'Unit 6: Emerging Modernism.' Harry was still asleep, but I didn't mind. I just held his hand. Voices from outside the door hit my ears, making me strain to understand what they were saying.
"It's a simple question, Mrs. Styles," said a voice, Harry's therapist. Someone was crying.
"I'm sorry, it's just, sometimes I do, but then I regret it, and I'm not sure. I'm a mess," It sounded like Harry's mum, but it was muffled through the door. Whoever it was, they were sobbing. I looked over at Liam, who was staring at the door as well. I gulped and looked over at Harry. He was so beautiful, but so broken.
*
Harry shifted uncomfortably in the chair, pressing his lips together in a straight line. The man in front of us was writing down something on a clipboard. He was dressed in a white lab coat, the traditional doctor uniform. His hair was greasy and long, and his eyes were black pits.
"We've done a few tests on your mother, Harry," commented the doctor. He was still writing as he spoke, not even offering a glance in our direction.
"Tests?" asked Harry. I grabbed his hand. I had to beg the doctors to let me come in here with Harry for support, because I knew whatever they had to tell him was bad, and Harry was unstable. The doctor finally looked up.
"Yes, psychological tests," I held my breath, "Your mother admitted to abusing you on a daily basis, but from the way she described it, we knew there might be something else going one. Your mother has been sent to the sanitarium section of the hospital," said the older man. At the word sanitarium, I squeezed Harry's hand tighter.
"Your mother suffers from a Bipolar Disorder, Mr. Styles."
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A/N
Yep. It was planned all along. And of course I didn't kill Harry, he's my baby.
Btw, you should check out my fanfic 'Boy Next Door'. It's a punk!Louis college Larry au. (Mouthful, right?)
Like always, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! Ily all so much. Please vote/comment for more!
:)