The Moment I Knew (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 23

A/N
So I've decided on a cover and a title for the third book! It will be called...*drum roll*
Untouchable!
Yay!
Now, besides @Tommo_Heart, does anybody know the relationship between the three titles?
I'm curious if anybody has picked up on it.
Love you!!!

A/N: literally almost a decade later after writing this, I am now getting my doctorate in clinical psychology and it is utterly hilarious how badly I portrayed therapists. Generally speaking, we don't ask 'why' so it's funny how often I have that in these stories.

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Louis's POV

I spent a lot of my time laying around, literally.
When my mum forced me out of bed in the late afternoon, I would shuffle downstairs and collapse on the sofa until I went back to bed.
I didn't really talk to anybody besides the odd snarl at somebody getting too close. The girls were instructed to keep their distance and I was never in the mood to open up to my mum.
I was curled up under my duvet, trying vainly to shield the sun from my eyes.
My mind was in the middle of this weird fog. I never really thought about anything other than the basic necessities. I liked it that way. It hurt less.
Lottie had made the mistake of coming into my room one night. She had sat on the edge of my bed and tried to talk to me. I had been ignoring her in favor of staring at the ceiling until-
"Louis, you need to talk. Nobody knows what happened with you and Eleanor and personally, I want to know how you got that awful bruise on your eye," she had said.
That had triggered something inside of the blurriness in my mind.
I wasn't entirely sure what exactly I had said to her- screamed at her, probably, but she had backed out of my room, eyes wide and teary.
I didn't care. I had gotten rid of her and I slipped back into the comforting fog.
The bruise was fading and so was the intense mental agony that it brought with it. I slipped further and further inside of myself, so far that I could hardly hear what people spoke to me.
I was never hungry, but I obediently picked at whatever food was shoved in front of me.
I knew that I should have been scared. I was terrifying my family and my friends, mum had said.
I didn't care. Let them hurt, I thought, it's nothing compared to what I have been through.
Roughly twice a day, I stood in the shower for more than an hour, desperately scrubbing at my skin.
Despite the haze in my mind, I could still feel the filth of sweat that wasn't my own on my skin, I could still feel pain shooting up my back as I was intruded upon, I could still feel the throbbing of my eye as I was hit for being scared.
I could feel it all and I tried to wash away the disgusting feeling on my skin.
It usually ended with me huddling in the corner of the bath, whimpering and shaking as cold water ran down my skin.
I didn't know if Liam had told anybody about what had happened. The boys knew, I was sure, and so did Eleanor, but outside of that, I didn't know.
I had a feeling that my mum didn't know. If it was up to me, nobody would ever find out what a disgusting piece of filth I was.
I often traced the slowly fading scar on my arm. My razor would catch my eye and temptation would seize me. It was a release, I had read, a release of pain and hurt and anger and overwhelming feelings. I needed a release. The fog could only cover so much. But then I never could bring myself to press the razor against my skin. I just physically couldn't.
My door banged open but I didn't bother turning over to see who it was.
"Louis William Tomlinson," a voice growled.
Ah, shit.
"I have no idea what the fuck is going on with you, but you're scaring everybody half out of their mind and I haven't heard from you in three months. So you better tell me what the fuck is going on," Stan snarled.
I sighed and rolled over.
When I faced him, I realized that he looked more worried than angry. I didn't really care. I just wanted him to go away.
"What is wrong with you, Louis? You look like you've been dragged to hell and back," he snapped.
I really did, actually. My beard was much thicker than I usually liked and my hair was messy and getting long. The bruise on my eye didn't help.
"I have been," I croaked, my voice scratchy from lack of use, "You've got no fucking idea."
He pulled out the chair from my desk and sat down next to my bed.
"Then give me an idea! I haven't talked to you in months and suddenly I get a call today from your frenzied mother telling me that you're acting like you're fucking brain-dead and nobody knows why!" Stan barked.
"I'd prefer to be brain-dead," I murmured absently.
I didn't want him to be with me. He was disrupting the peaceful cloud that I had carefully pulled around me, blocking out my emotions.
Stan scoffed.
"Christ, Louis, is this about Eleanor breaking it off with you? Cause you kind of deserved it mate, the way you were treating her, the way you've been treating everybody," he said.
"Go away," I mumbled, turning to face the wall, "I don't feel well."
"Don't use the bullshit on me, Tomlinson. Fuck, I'm worried sick about you, everybody is! Look at you! You've lost a shit-ton of weight, you look like you haven't slept in days even though that's all you do apparently, you've got a mysterious fucking black eye, and you won't talk to anybody! What's wrong, Louis? Please!" he sighed.
I stiffened.
"Get the fuck out of my room," I growled, my voice low and dangerous, "Before I make you."
I would, and Stan knew it.
"Whatever, Louis," he growled, standing up and knocking the chair over.
He cursed, but he didn't pick it up. Instead, he left and slammed the door closed.
I sighed and slipped back into the fog. Through it, I could hear faint voices trickling in from the kitchen, but I quickly tuned them out.
The one thing that was impossible to numb was the constant ache and need for a drink. I craved alcohol every second and I would admit to having dreams about it. I was addicted and I knew it. I needed it.
My door opened again. I heard rustling for a few minutes before objects landed with a muffled thump on my bed.
"Get dressed," Stan ordered.
"I thought I told you to get the fuck out," I growled.
"We're going to a psychiatrist, whether you like it or not," he continued.
I shot up in my bed, my mouth pulling back in a snarl.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing? I'm not going to a fucking shrink or whatever! I'm perfectly sane!" I cried furiously.
"I'll disagree with that," he drawled, "Now get dressed. We're going."
"No."
I threw the clothes back at him childishly.
"I'll dress you like a fucking child if you don't do it yourself, I swear to God, Louis," he threatened, "And I will carry you to the blood car if I have too."
I stared at him.
He shrugged, marching over to me.
I didn't make it easy for him. He struggled to pull the shirt over my head and fit my limp arms through.
Stan decided that forcing me into jeans was too difficult and he let me stay in trackpants.
He shoved shoes on my feet.
"I'm not fucking going. I'm going to stay here," I spat.
"I'll carry you, Louis. I don't care," he growled.
I tried to scramble into the safety of my sheets, but he caught me around the waist. He picked me up into a fireman's carry.
I gave an indignant squawk.
"Put me down! You fucking bastard, let me go! I'm not going! I'm not going! Let me go! I'm not going!" I screamed as he carried me through the house.
I pretended not to see Lottie and Fizzy look up from the sofa and the sadness on their faces as their older brother was forced to see a therapist.
I beat and clawed at Stan's back and kicked ferociously, screaming my protests all the while.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lou," he grunted, struggling to open a door.
"I'll have him back in under two hours!" he called behind him.
Stan dumped me unceremoniously into the car and immediatly put on the child safety locks so that I couldn't get out.
I scowled the entire way. It was a decent drive too.
"I fucking hate you, Stanley," I hissed.
"It was your mum's idea. I'm just the muscle to get you out," he said calmly, "But I'm doing it for your own good. You're messed up, I'll admit that, and you're scaring me. I'm getting you help."
"I don't need any fucking help! I need Harry!" I shouted, my eyes widening when I realized that I had let something out.
Stan gave me a look but he didn't comment.
He finally pulled up to what looked like an office building and he parked.
"Look. I'll carry you in there if I have to. But if anybody gets a picture, you're screwed. Plus, random strangers don't need to see you throwing a tantrum," he said easily.
I got out of the car and stormed inside. He led me to the right door and I stepped into a waiting room.
The secretary looked up and gave us a small smile.
"You'll be visited shortly," she said before returning to whatever paper she was looking at.
I tapped my foot impatiently, debating about how quickly Stan would catch me if I were to make a run for it.
"Mr. Tomlinson?"
I swore under my breath.
I looked up to see an older man in a door way.
"Come with me, please," he instructed.
I stood and shot Stan the worst glare I could, flipping him off as I walked away. I heard a woman give an indignant scoff so I raised my other hand and flipped Stan off with both hands.
I followed the man as he went into a room. He gestured for me to sit down on a sofa.
I stayed standing and he shrugged.
"Good afternoon. I'm Dr. Benson," he said, holding his hand out.
I didn't shake it.
He shrugged again.
"Okay. So I'm curious, why are you here? I already know from your mother's phone call, but why do you think you're here?" he asked, leaning back in a black office chair, the kind that spun.
"Because my mum is an idiot and my friend is a fucking asshole," I snapped.
"Why?" Dr. Benson asked.
"Because I don't need a fucking therapist! I'm fine!" I shouted.
He nodded slowly.
"Why do they think you need me?" he asked.
"I don't know. I don't want to talk about the shitstorm that is my life and they think that I'm going insane or something," I grumbled.
"Why?" he asked.
"I don't fucking know! Why the hell do you keep asking 'why'? I don't know, Christ!" I snapped.
"Okay. Well, what do you want to talk about?" he asked.
I snorted.
"I don't want to talk. I want to go to bed," I sighed, running my hands through my hair.
"Well, we've got an hour. We've got to talk about something," he said, "What's your favorite football team?"
I stared at him.
"Aren't you supposed to ask me some deep shit questions or something? Like what happened to make me so insane or whatever?" I asked.
Dr. Benson shrugged for a third time.
"Is that what you want to talk about?" he asked, "I was trying to make things comfortable for you, but if you want, of course we can talk about that."
I decided that I hated him and that he really pissed me off.
"I'm not going to talk," I growled.
"Okay," he replied.
I stood and stared at the ground for what felt like years. I looked at the clock. Five minutes.
"Fuck this. I'm done," I snarled, wheeling towards the door.
The only thing he had to say was, "Okay! See you next week!"