Lirry Stayne One Shots

Bliss

This is about Harry attempting suicide

By doingitallwithyounion Tumble

Right now, just do it. Nobody's around to hear or see. And besides, it's not like anybody will actually care.

You didn't truly think someone cared about you, did you Harold? Because nobody does; you're worthless, a waste of space and a disgrace. Just do it. Do everyone a favor.

Harry, with shaking hands, reached into his backpack that lay beside him on the cold tiles of the boy's bathroom. His fingers dug around in the mess at the bottom of the bag until they grasped what he had been searching for; the gun.

The gun that will end it all, take him out of his misery, and spare everyone else the hassle of his existence. His hand paused mid-pull, and it rested halfway inside of his backpack. Ever-shaking fingers curled tightly around it, and Harry pressed his shining sage eyes closed, taking deep and calculated breaths as he did so.

The air that went in and out of his lungs was uneven and scattered; Harry was nervous, and he wasn't sure why. He wanted to be dead, he didn't want to be stuck on this godforsaken planet for another moment, and he was sure of that. But he couldn't help but feel some unease as the small pistol revealed itself completely, and the metal structure of it shone underneath the fluorescent lighting, glinting uncomfortably in his eyes.

He closed them again, took a breath that puffed up his lungs, and then he stood. Soundless steps carried him towards the sinks, and he supported himself against the porcelain basins. The reflection in the foggy mirror wasn't the Harry he wished he would see. This Harry looked worn out, completely exhausted and lost. His eyes were dull, not alight with the brightness and color that usually tinged them, and they sported horridly amaranthine bags that were painted darkly beneath them. They looked empty, sucked completely of all emotion, as if all of the happiness and bliss he had ever felt was dried out. He watched as they filled to the very brim with tears that threatened to spill at any moment, and when they did, he didn't move to stop them. Harry allowed the warm stream to slide down his cheeks and fall off his chin in little droplets.

He stared hardly at his pathetic self for one more second, and then turned on his heels, back towards the gun and his backpack.

Harry picked the weapon up and turned it over multiple times in his hands, admiring the beauty of the thing.

He laughed bitterly, "You and I are going to be very good friends."

And he raised the barrel to level with his head, and then rested it tightly against his untamed curls. The coolness of the metal on his scalp made a chill run up his spine, and he took another shaky breath as he closed his eyes.

"1..." He counted.

"2..." Just do it.

The ear-piercing screech of an un-oiled door pulled Harry from his concentration and his eyes popped open. Someone had entered the bathroom. He wasn't alone.

How could he have forgotten to lock the door? How stupid could he be?

Harry refused to turn around and face the person who had interrupted him, and he didn't move the gun from his skull.

Quiet footsteps padded towards him.

"Harry?" He recognized that voice, but he couldn't quite put a face to it, "Harry what the hell are you doing?"

The young and curl ridden boy choked back a sob, and pressed tighter on his already closed eyes, allowing a harder rush of tears to trace a path down his face.

"Harry," That voice was so incredibly humble and filled with genuine worry. And so familiar, why couldn't Harry figure out who it was? "Look at me. Put the gun down and look at me."