Based on the song "The Loss" by Hollywood Undead.
Harry lay on his bed; eyes shut tight, head pounding from the alcohol he’d just consumed. He’d always been a lightweight. Two bears and he already needed to take pain pills from the massive headache he was about to have. That’s why he’d just drunk seven. He needed to feel the pain, the adrenaline rush that drinking brought him.
His life was a mess. He’d only had his parents for about seven years of his life. Even in those seven years, they were never there for him. The only thing they’d ever be concerned with was drugs; constantly they left young Harry with only his abusive older sister to buy cocaine. He was a soft spoken child, mainly because he was afraid of what would happen if he spoke. When his parents were out, his sister would hit him. The only motive was that she got pleasure from seeing her helpless younger brother in pain. She loved to see him scream and cry, hoping someone would help. No one ever did. Even when his parents returned and saw the bruises, they’d tell him to be more careful when he played. But Harry never played like other kids. He sat in his room, alone, hoping that one day he’d be released from the hell he had to call home.
His wish was finally granted one day when his parents wrecked on their way home from a drug deal. He’d got the news four days before his seventh birthday. Instead of crying, he smiled. He didn’t have to spend his birthday with his horrific family. His parents completely forgot every year and his sister said it was the worst day of the year. When Harry asked why, she’d said that it’s because the waste of space she had to call her brother was born. He learned not even to speak to his sister. Everything she had to say just hurt him worse than the last thing she’d said. But he didn’t have to worry about it anymore.
Harry had no other living relatives besides his sister; she was too young to take care of him. She moved in with her best friend and didn’t let Harry come, which he was grateful for. Therefore, he lived with the family across the street. They were lovely; they even had a little boy just two years older than Harry. His name was Louis, and they grew to be best friends. He helped Harry through much of his adolescent life. Even with a friend, Harry still felt worthless. He felt as if nothing he did was right, no matter how much the Tomlinson’s had encouraged and complimented him. He never tried out for any clubs or sports, and he never spoke at lunch, just listened to Louis and his friends. Even with Louis being his friend, he seldom spoke to him. He didn’t want Louis to become upset with him; he didn’t want to lose the only friend he’d ever have or ever would make.
Within the past couple month, Louis had become depressed; he lost that spark in his beautiful blue eyes and the bubbly tone to his voice. Harry was too scared to ask why, so he kept quiet. He just watched quietly as Louis would take a razor to his wrists at night. Harry didn’t understand this. For the first time, he’d actually asked Louis a question. He’d asked what he was doing and Louis, not knowing Harry was watching, told him it helped take his emotional pain away. Harry was still confused, but decided to leave it alone, and went to sleep.
For the longest time, Harry asked Louis if he needed to talk. Louis said he was fine. He said he was getting better, but he felt helpless. He said the razor meeting his skin helped him feel in control of some aspect of his life.
One night, when Louis was fast asleep, Harry snuck over to Louis’ bed and grabbed the razor from his nightstand. He examined it for a moment, taking in the sharp blade. Did he really want to do this? Would it actually help him feel okay for once? Harry decided to take the risk. He tried to slowly pull the razor across his skin, but the sluggish stinging sensation was too much to handle. He quickly brought the razor down again, not giving himself time to back out of his decision. The razor glided smoothly and swiftly across Harry’s soft wrist, and it took him a moment to feel the sharp pain that shot up and down his arm. He covered his mouth with his right hand to keep from making distressed sounds and waking up Louis. Blood slowly trickled down his wrist and into his hand. Harry decided he liked it. He liked the ache the sharp metal brought him. So, he took the razor, and made three more slashes in his left wrist. Blood continued to fall into his hand and off the side of his arm. In the few short moments that he felt the pain of the razor, he forgot all about how worthless he felt. The only pain he felt was the pain in his wrist.
Harry continued this habit of sneaking Louis’ razor away from him at night to harm himself. He started to feel a little better about himself.
Just a few weeks before Harry’s intoxication, he’d gotten his own place just a few blocks from Louis. He still visited his only friend often, still not saying much during their time together. One night, Louis and Harry had plans to go to the movies. Louis was supposed to pick him up, but his ride never came. Harry got worried, so he jumped into his car and went to Louis’ house. He knocked on the door and rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. He quickly learned the door was unlocked, and he rushed inside. He ran up to Louis’ bedroom door, walking straight inside. He put his hand over his mouth and fell back against the wall in absolute horror of what he saw: his best friend, crumpled on the floor, blood gushing from his head, gun lying right next to him. Harry felt like screaming, but no sound would come out. He looked around the room but there was no note, no explanation. He didn’t know what to do, so he just left. Harry felt weak. He had no one. He felt as if he was six again, scared and alone, with no one but people who didn’t care for him.
On his way home, he stopped by the gas station for a twelve-pack of beer. Once he got inside of his house, he threw his keys on the table and rushed to his room, slamming the door behind him. Then he screamed until his throat was raw. A few tears escaped his eyes as he popped open a beer, taking a large gulp.
“How could you? How fucking could you, you selfish little bastard? What you did was senseless. I’m alone now, asshole. What about our friendship? You’re the only goddamn friend I’ve ever had,” Harry muttered to himself darkly as he paced back and forth around the room, downing more alcohol as he walked.
He honestly couldn’t believe what Louis had done. Harry’s life had been much more agonizing then Louis’ but he had never once thought of taking his own life.
Until now.
Harry lie down on the bed, before drinking his seventh beer and deciding to stop. His head hurt terribly, but he refused to get up and get something to drown the pain out. He needed it. He shut his eyes, his whole life flashing before him: his sister, his parents, moving in with Louis. None of that mattered now. He was more alone than ever.
He forced his eyes open. Harry’s vision was foggy. He looked towards the small table by his bed at the gleaming piece of metal next to him. He decided that wasn’t going to be enough this time. He pulled himself off of the bed with the little strength he could muster. He stumbled over towards his closet and opened the door. He took out a small box and removed the lid, revealing a shiny, silver hand gun. Harry placed his hand on the cold metal that sent shivers all over him. He took the gun in this hand, admiring it. He and Louis had bought their guns together; they were identical.
“Louis, I hope you know that when that bullet went through,” Harry shouted, “you weren’t just killing yourself! You killed me, too. Rot in hell.”
Those were the last words Harry had ever said. He cocked the gun and slowly raised it to his temple, his finger shaking on the trigger.
And then he squeezed.
