bitter || zarry stylik

eighteen

[trigger warning]

stay safe and stay golden, my loves 🌹

-

Harry is painfully sober, and something feels wrong. He hopes he can get to the bathroom without waking up Zayn.

As he tiptoes down the hall, the floor creaks, and he cringes, but Zayn doesn't seem to wake up. Once in the washroom, Harry switches on the light, and stares at his sallow-skinned, tired reflection. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is pale from feeling so sick. He looks like shit. Like always.

He runs a hand through his hair, opens his medicine cabinet, and pops two ibuprofens into his mouth. That should help with his headache and nausea, but he doesn't know what he's going to do about his depression. It's so bad tonight, he thinks he might die. Literally.

Since Zayn is here, he's not going to try, but he knows something not so good is going to happen. Harry can predict what's going to happen next. He'll sit in the bathtub for hours, trying to convince himself it's not a good idea to cut, but then the depressed part of him will take over and it will happen anyway. So, Harry thinks, might as well just save myself the argument and just cut now, right?

Harry nods, and falls into sort of a trance. He doesn't even have to think, he just goes into the cabinet, and fishes out his blade from behind the pipe, and rolls up his sleeve. Just as he pushes the razor against his already scarred skin, he remembers Zayn. Zayn wouldn't want him to cut himself. Zayn wouldn't want him to get hurt.

Come to think of it, Harry only really cares about what Zayn wants, and if cutting himself would make Zayn unhappy, then Harry isn't going to do it.

He tapes the blade back in place, and splashes some cold water on his face. It isn't until he dries himself off that he realises he's crying. He looks back up in the mirror, and feels his eyelids droop closed. All he ever wanted was to be extraordinary.

He knows that's a lot to ask for, but he would settle for normal. But no, he had to be staggeringly below average.

Maybe he should cut after all. Harry thinks on it for a second, before deciding to just do it. What's a couple more scars? And, Zayn won't have to know. Harry will just cut on his legs again.

He gets out his blade once more, rolls down his shorts, and pushes it hard - harder than he means to - against his upper thigh. Harry doesn't even blink. He just watches the razor tear through his skin, and his eyes follow the blood that trickles down his leg onto the tile floor.

Seven cuts later, Harry cleans up the blood, washes his face again, and wraps some toilet paper around his thighs. Eight is a bit much, Harry thinks. But in order to have an even number on both legs, he had to do either two or four on each leg, and he had already done three on one side.

He washes a little bit of blood from under his nails, and takes a breath in. Zayn doesn't have to know. But he'll probably find out and be very disappointed, Harry thinks, cursing himself for being so foolish. Now he's starting to regret taking all this time cutting himself, when he could have been talking to Zayn.

Maybe that's what he'll do. He'll ask Zayn what to do.