Behind Closed Doors *Narry*

Chapter 4

This is a pretty graphic chapter, gory sort of, for those who hate blood or anything remotely close to that skip it, sorry xx

After a long, tiring day of being captured by cameras and standing in front of way too large of a crowd Niall was finally in his hotel room. He knew by now the rest of the boys would probably be fast asleep and he figured it'd be okay to start crying. No one would be able to hear him over Harry's soft music in the next room and Zayn and Liam's very loud snoring. So he just let it all out.

The tears were fat and warm trickling down his cheek and pooling on the floor where he sat crossed legged in the dark. He pulled harshly on his blonde locks hoping it would take away this burning feeling in his chest and the unevitable feeling of feeling so utterly worthless. But it didn't work! It wasn't enough!

No matter how hard he pulled or how hard he chomped on his lip he couldn't fight the feeling of being this absolutely worthless person.

He thought of how gorgeous Harry looked all the time, how no matter how his hair looked, messy or just plain, he looked spectacular. He thought of how muscular and strong Liam always looked, how attractive he always seemed to be. He thought of how funny and sociable Louis was, how he could get out of any awkward situation or how he could squirm his way out of any sticky situations with just his words. He thought of how Zayn was so creative and down to Earth and so realistic. He thought of how he was none of those things and how he just wished he could be so specifically unique and special and different. But no, of course, he got stuck with this ugly, horribly selfish individual he completely loathed. He thought of how better everything would be if he never existed. He thought about how One Direction would be so much more sucessfull if he wasn't dragging them down. He thought of how his brother wouldn't have to worry about him if he was never born. And he thought of how many people would cry if he killed himself right now.

You know how many names he came up with?

Two.

And those were still undecided.

He cried himself into a little ball beside his bed. The right side of his face scratching the rough carpeted floor spectacularly. He rubbed his head against it as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. He scratched and scratched until he felt the skin rip and small droplets of blood bubbled over. But that just wasn't enough. He still didn't feel very satisfied, so he cried harder and longer until it was almost hard to breathe. And he thought how amazing it would be if he could go like this. If he could just die in the confines of a hotel room, drowning in his own tears. But that was too simple, that would be giving up. He wasn't that desperate for it to end. Yet.

Then an idea sparked in his mind, maybe he didn't have to drown in his tears or necessarily die for this agonozing pain to disappear. Maybe he just needed a really, really good distraction.

So he sat up, rather quickly and teetered slightly. A dizzy spell washing over him. He didn't give himself much time to let it pass before he was on his feet and shuffling over to the bathroom, the room still spinning.

He ran into the small tattered bathroom, gripping the counter until his fingers turned white. He yanked all the drawers opened scanning the products within for what he wanted. What he so desperately needed.

In the very last drawer he found the razor in all it's glory. He ripped it out of it's package and pulled it out. He stared at it for a while, running his fingers over it's sharp edges and twirling it in between his fingers. It took him literally a minute to break the plastic around the prize and pull just a single razor out. He slid the sharp side along his finger tip piercing the skin lightly.

He placed it softly on the counter with shaky hands so he could take his shirt and pants off until he was only in his boxers. He didn't like the idea of being so exposed, even if he was the only one to see it. He was the most judgemental of himself than them all, he was the hardest on himself and seeing his not so slim waist and protruding stomach was hell. It was worse than someone he loved telling him he was fat, because he would always be there to haunt himself.

Tentatively, with millions of hurtful thoughts roaming his brain, he picked the razor up and brought it down on the soft skin of his hip. At first it did nothing, maybe a little pinch was felt but nothing distracting enough to help him. So he dragged the blade deep and hard across his hip, this time blood appeared immediately. Red ran down his leg in lines, fast and strong. He watched interested in the way the dark crimson slid down his leg, curving when needed until it pooled down on the ground.

He smiled as the sting pulled his thoughts away from fat, ugly, worthless, useless, stupid. He placed the blade across his stomach, etching the word fat into it and neatly beneath it left about 20 clean, deep cuts. They were perfectly aligned in perfect straight lines. And he couldn't help think, at least one thing about me is beautiful.

Then he slid down to the white tiled floor in a heap of blood, tears and sobs.

He felt somewhat satified, yet he also felt horrible. He felt guilty. Maybe it was because he promised his brother he'd never do this again and maybe it was because he broke his promise to himself to never hurt or betray his brother. But he did, and there was no going back.

When the scabs heal and leave there will always be the scars to remind him of his failure. But yet he kind of liked that he finally, again, had control over the pain or at least one kind of pain.

The only sound that he could hear now was the loud hiccups bubbling out of his throat and the horribly deppressing sobs that followed. And that ringing noise inside his ears, a deafening ringing that he wanted to just disappear but it just got more persistant. He cried harder hoping the sound would leave, why wouldn't it just leave?

And then he realizes it's not stopping because it's not in his head, its his phone.

He scrambles quickly to his feet, dizzy from the blood loss and lack of food in his system. He trips on some droplets of blood and nearly takes a tumble but luckily he catches himself. He dashes for his phone and answers without looking at the ID. He just wanted the noise to stop.

He coughed, trying to clear his throat so they wouldn't suspect that he was crying. As much as he tried he couldn't stop the tears that were still cascading down his cheeks and dripping onto his chest. He also couldn't help the hiccups that were still forming in his throat.

"Hello?" He croaked into the receiver of the phone.

"Niall Horan?" A husky Irishmen asks, clearly catching Niall of guard. Millions of thoughts go through his mind but only one really stood out from the rest. Oh God, is my brother dead?

"Yes? Who is this?" He asks still sobbing silently on the other end of the phone.

"Hey little bro."

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