Always Love You: A One Direction Adoption Story

Chapter 20

⚠️ Trigger warning in this scene (sh). Please skip the section in *** to avoid⚠️

Roselyn POV:

"Goodnight!" I call out as the boys close my door.

That was close, I think to myself. I almost forgot about the razors I had hidden under my pillow, and Harry was dangerously close to discovering them.

I needed a better place to keep them since the boys were going to help me set up my room in the morning.

I grabbed them carefully from under my pillow and headed into the bathroom. I decided to store them in a drawer, behind the extra toothpaste. Looking at them so close and within reach, I was tempted. Still, I hurriedly shut the drawer and headed back to my room.

I changed quickly, deciding to shower in the morning, and headed to bed.

I couldn't sleep right away though. This was my first night since coming here that I'd have to be alone. Still, it felt wrong to ask one of the boys to stay with me. I knew that I needed to get over it at some point.

Eventually, I fell asleep, and to no one's surprise, I was plagued with nightmares. Of my mother living happily without us, of the boys abandoning me just as she had, of having to stay with my father or sleep on the street.

I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart beating loudly. I quickly got up and went to the bathroom. Without even turning on the light, I headed to the sink, quickly rinsing my face off with water.

Once I calmed down a bit, I flicked on the switch, my eyes squinting to adjust to the sudden light. I grabbed a hand towel and dried off my face, trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirror.

I'm still anxious. It feels like my whole body is on fire.

***

I put down the towel, and before I realized what I was doing, I had opened the drawer and grabbed one of the blades. My heart was beating in my ears. I couldn't seem to catch a breath. All I could think about was that I needed this chaos inside of me to subside.

1 cut.

A crisp, straight line on the face of my left thigh, about 3 inches long. The blood, crimson red, staining my blade.

2 cuts.

Better. I could breathe. My chest doesn't feel as heavy. But it is not enough.

3 cuts.

Okay. We're getting somewhere. My eyes are not cloudy anymore. I can see what I am doing. I can hear my thoughts. This will pass soon.

4 cuts.

My heartbeat is slowing down to normal. To almost normal. I have more control of my senses. I am almost there. I am almost at peace. I am meticulous in my work, each line perfectly parallel to the one before it.

5 cuts.

The perfect number. My limbs are my own. My thoughts are my own. My world is my own. I've done what nothing else seems to do.

I needed to feel something to know that I am real; that I am alive. The blood proves this. The pain proves this.

After all, I deserve it. This is my punishment. This is the price I must pay for freedom. 

But it's worth it to me. Even for just a second of peace, it is worth it to me.

I sit for a few moments until the blood begins to dry and my cuts fade into the sea of scars beneath them. I run a piece of toilet paper under the faucet and use it to wipe down my thigh, as well as the blade.