Break Me-A Harry Styles Fanfiction

Chapter 39-Conclusion

"Are you ready for the 'serious conversation' that I mentioned before?" Dr. Telesco pokes his head into my empty room, scanning it briefly before entering. I was able to pry my family off of me, and convinced them to leave the hospital for a while to go out to eat. 

When I was alone, I began to dig deep into the dusty, ignored corners of my messed up mind. Why am I so sad? Will I always be like this? What's wrong with me? Streams of questions as such came flooding into my brain, but the answers seemed to be missing. I have no idea why I am the way I am. Maybe my parents just got unlucky.

"I guess." I sigh, though honestly, I am dreading the inevitable interrogation. 

My doctor pulls up a plastic chair next to my bed, plopping down in it, and opening the cap to his pen, ready to jot down notes on his records of me. I try to ignore his scribbles, hoping he won't be taking notes the entirety of the conversation.

"Okay Bella, can you tell me a little bit about the way you've been feeling lately? How have your moods been?" He stares at me intently, as though I'm a lab specimen he's observing beneath a microscope.

I blink, swallow, bite my lip. I could refuse to speak. I could shake my head, and spew angry, and hateful words at this man. But what good would that do? For some reason, some odd reason, I feel ready. Ready to open up. Ready to talk. Maybe it's the medication I'm on, or maybe it's the fumes of the hospital, but I don't feel fear when thinking about what happened to me.

"Don't feel pressured to tell me anything too personal." Dr. Telesco smiles a kind and reassuring smile. 

"No," I say. "I want to. I want to tell you about it."

Like an unstoppable projection of word-vomit, it all comes out. Charlie, the hitting, the drinking, the pain, the sadness, the nightmares, the tears. I tell this man and he listens. He doesn't judge me, doesn't scold me, doesn't hate me. I don't even mind that he writes down what I say. Maybe he'll show it to someone else, and they will listen, too. He is patient and gentle, and allows me to pause when a new round of tears spill from my eyes. I talk and he listens. A weight lifts from my shoulders; not a heavy one, but significant enough to make me take a step back, and reevaluate.

Maybe suicide wasn't the answer. Maybe speaking up, and speaking out, was. Saying "I need help" was something I never considered, but now, talking about it makes me feel lighter, more free. Maybe I can be helped. Maybe I can be saved. Maybe there's hope for me.

~*~

I am to be transferred to a nearby psychiatric hospital.

My mother cried when she heard, my father has run out of tears. Harry worried if we would be able to see each other.

I don't fight this. I need help, and it is being offered to me. No longer will I disregard the people who attempt to get through to me, no longer will I seal my lips and block off my emotions. I will speak. I will heal.

Harry sits on my bed, and holds my hand, gently stroking the back of my palm with his thumb. 

"I should have saved you." He whispers, merely inaudibly. I almost agree with him, almost wish that he did too. A thought strikes me:

I cannot be saved by another. The only way I will recover is with my own strength, my own willpower. If I expect to be resurrected from my state of living dead, I will never truly see the world as it is meant to be seen. I have been through hell, but I have also been exposed to a passionate and raw experience of love. I am grateful, so grateful to have Harry in my life. He will continue to support me, but he cannot save me. Only I can save myself.

I tell this to him and he cries. Happy tears, he explains, as he swats them away from his cheeks as they litter the surface. I cry too, fully allowing my emotions to manifest into exactly what they are, instead of internalizing them only to be dealt with in the future. 

He promises to visit me three times a week.

I promise him I'll try my hardest to fight the darkness that resides within my soul.

He promises to always love me.

My parents gather my things from home, and return back to the hospital, ready for my departure. My stitches have been removed, and I am up and moving once again. I don't think about anything but right now, this moment. I don't dwell on anything, I look forward to forgetting.

 I was broken.

I was lost and helpless. Unsure of who to turn to, or how to handle the demanding and dangerous thoughts that lurked through my head. I thought death was my only escape.

I am not healed, but I am getting there, taking it day-by-day, and forgiving myself for the choices I've made. Some days are good, some are bad. I don't rush. I sit down when I'm tired, ask questions, listen to my doctors, believe them when they say they're trying to help. I am not fixed, but I am trying. I remind myself that I have my family who support me through anything. I remind myself that I am the luckiest girl in the world for having a boy like Harry, who loves and cherishes me. I am not fixed, but I am close. I still get sad, and lonely, and lost, but I don't allow those occasional feelings to halt my development. 

I am a work in progress.

The end :)