Be My Happy

Chapter 2

   A/N: Please comment/vote! (:   I know the chapters seem really short but I'm the kind of writer who gets bursts of creativity and instead of waiting to add to it I rush and post it?? Im sorry if thats annoying but I'll try to update fast to make up for it(:         

Harry Styles sat in the dark. It wasn’t unusual for him, or uncomfortable in any way. He felt at home, or at peace. Harry didn’t believe in God, or in heaven or angels or any of that bullshit. If there was a God, why would he do this to him? Harry believed that once you died, you would be in the dark. Permanently. And honestly… that’s how he likes it. Brightness brings headaches and disappointed facial expressions and sadness and light that will never make his milky skin tan again. Darkness doesn’t have any of that.

                He remembers when he first got here, and how bright it had seemed. Hopeful expressions, experimental drug trials, a chance of surviving; the comforting darkness always waiting around the corner, but not quite making an appearance yet. It was all very touchy-feely. Fortunately, now he felt nothing.

                Harry told his friends to stop visiting first. His daily headaches were turning into daily migraines and every time a mate came it was with a sympathetic expression. Harry didn’t want sympathy; so he cut the ties. He only calls Zayn on his very goods days—he’s an exception.

                Next came his family, or lack there of.  Only his mom and sister visited him, grandparents dead and a dad who left long before he was born. Once the news came out that he would be dead in about a year, every visit brought tears. Harry didn’t want to feel sadness—he wanted to feel nothing. He agreed to stay at the hospital, though, to let his mom feel at least some comfort that he would be eating.

                He had started eating again soon after that, (he swears), but the hospital food was shit and he never got what he ordered to fuck it might as well waste away ahead of schedule. The nurses knew it too, every time they had to take his weight and check his blood pressure, but they didn’t say anything. Harry figured they had given up on him, or thought he was going to die soon anyway, so why try?

                And then the therapists started pouring in, eight to be exact. The first one lasted the longest, only to leave after Harry threw a vase at him when he turned the lights on without asking. The next few were old men who, Harry thought, shouldn’t be treating him like he was 5. They left within the first week. He remembers when a young girl (around 21, he thinks) came in to try to help, only to flirt with him shamelessly instead. (Harry will never forget the look on her face when he asked her if she had a dick, for that was the only way to get into his pants). Harry tries to forget about them, and after the last one left, asked not to be bothered anymore.

                On a particularly bad day, though, when he was just getting over a wave of nausea from the fucking migraine he had all night—Harry swears the nurses are just giving him sugar pills to make him more miserable—Louis knocked on the door.

                Louis. He couldn’t think about him without getting butterflies in his stomach. Beautiful blue eyes with little crinkles when he smiled, an ass that filled his jeans out perfectly. He was one of the only therapists he had had that made him nervous. (and kind of hard, he admits, but only because he doesn’t have the energy to wank anymore). Once Louis walked in, Harry knew he was different than the others And that scared him. But he gave him his spiel and tried to control the little flutter of hope heating his heart—for he knew he had to stick to darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I don’t know Zayn,” Harry said the umpteenth time to his best mate. It was Thursday, Morphine day. The day he allowed himself to call his best friend.

                “Come on mate, she misses you,” Zayn said pleadingly. “And we both know you don’t have a lot of fucking time left.”  Harry heard the slight sound of him inhaling deeply, and then exhaling.

                “I see you picked up smoking again? Watch out, I heard it causes cancer.”

                “Ha-ha. Very funny, you shit.” Zayn sighed. “At least let me see you so I can let your mom know how you’re doing. You eating?”

                “Of course.”

                “Don’t lie to me.”

                “I’m not fucking lying to you, Zayn,” Harry snapped. Why does anyone even care, he thinks to himself. Only half a year left.

                “I’ll believe you when I see you. Either that or I never talk to you again. I’m sick of this shit, Harry.” He heard him take a shuddery breath. “Please. I just need to see you.”

                An ultimatum. A small crack of light in the darkness. It made Harry feel very vulnerable.

                “Visit tomorrow at noon,” Harry said hesitantly. “My therapist is coming half past then, so you can’t stay long.”

                “Thank you… but a new one? I thought you said no more.”

                Harry sighed. (sighing was more common than breathing for him now-a-days). “I know. But he got signed to me anyway and I think… I think I’ll work him out. See how long he lasts.” He picked at his blanket.

                “Oh,” Zayn said surprised. Harry never really welcomed a new therapist before.

                “Let’s just forget it.” Harry rushed. He definitely wasn’t going to tell him about how his heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again, or about how his eyes reminded him of the hope he used to have, or about the dream he had about his ass the night before… nope. Harry didn’t plan on ever telling Zayn about that. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he hung up without hearing a goodbye from Zayn.

                He tossed his cell to the floor with a groan. Zayn was going to see him tomorrow after almost a year. What was he thinking? He was skin and bones. His hair was greasy, usually just being left un-kept and unruly. Whenever he actually got up to look at himself in a mirror, he had permanent bags under his eyes and the last time he check, weighed 99 pounds. (His goal is to weigh 85 before he dies—but he keeps that to himself). But that was something he was going to have to deal with.

                He got up out of bed and hobbled over to his small, narrow closet built into the wall of his room. Harry kept the few things he had brought from home in here, opting to almost shield them from the darkness in the outside world. He wanted to keep his happy memories away and safe. Holding onto his I.V. bag and morphing plug for support as it’s wheels squeaked from barely being used, he opened up the door and pulled out a jumper, two t-shirts, and a baggy pair of sweat pants.

                If he wanted tomorrow to work, he had to hide. And hopefully the darkness-- and extra layers-- would help him.