Beneath the Midnight Sky

Eighteen

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm and Eating Disorder Moments.
The self-harm may be a bit intense and considered graphic. Please use caution. Contains mild language as well. ⚠️
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Like a siren calling his name, he couldn't resist the intention resting lazily between his fingers. Two years of making momma happy circling in his mind. Was it worth it? He could give into the thumping in his head and feel okay again or he could allow his soul to continue to die.

He pulls his jeans down, exposing his bare thighs. The tiger tattoo; a reminder of his past recovery now suddenly becoming a barrier for the place he wanted to see crimson pouring down. Louis, irritated, speaks softly but begrudgingly and patronizingly, "Harry, enough."

Harry checks the time and un-does the wristwatch strap and feels the pulse, pulse, pulse of the veins below his palm.

"Enough."

"Cut me." Harry demands placing Louis' hands into his own, making him trace the outline of the razor lightly. Louis nods his head in a frantic 'no.'

"You have to. You have been for a long time. Every time you don't eat, I feel it palpitating in my veins. Cut me."

"I can't," Louis said stepping away from him.

The racing obsession circuits through his mind as he numbly, slowly pushes the razor blade into his skin and pulls it down his thigh. Release. Time stands still. His eyes fight from falling back and he breathes deep.

Regaining his composure, Louis steps forward just as Harry is about to make another mark down his leg. He clutches his hands over Harry's; squeezing the razor in the palm of his hand. Surprised, Harry dropped the blade into the sink.

"Stop!" He demanded making stern eye contact.

"No, Lou. You drag the blade down my skin every time you refuse to eat, every time you purge your food, every time you get that look in your eyes." Harry breathed heavily as he positioned Louis in front of the bathroom mirror. "That look. The one that says you hate yourself and life is not worth living anymore. Am I not worth fighting the darkness for?"

"Not how I imagined our last night together." Louis mumbled quietly. Harry became frustrated and pushed him into the vanity with his body; their chest collided together.

Harry scoffed. "So, you're allowed to hurt yourself in front of me but I can't return the favor?" He folded his arms. "Hypocrisy. Ana is your way of coping; you call her voice static in your head. I named mine Jabez. He has been calling my name for years. I could turn him off when I wanted to with music, yoga, drinking, writing, mindfulness, anything I wanted to I suppose."

He bent down and picked up the razor out of the sink. "But why did I ever stop? I can't remember." He slumped down on the closed toilet and admired the open wound on this thigh. "I guess I've been wrong all this time. Hurting yourself does feel good in a twisted way." He smirked as he cut the opposite direction of the previous cut making a X.

Louis flinched at the sight of the dripping blood coming out of the tattoo. Though it wasn't a heavy flow, it was enough to make anyone queasy.

"Am I not worth fighting this disease for?" Harry refreshed the question, realizing he never received an answer.

"This has nothing to do with you, Harry." Louis stated avoiding the question.

Harry dug the blade into his skin once again, creating a third overlapping line. He gasped at the pain radiating in his thigh.

"It has everything to do with me, Lou."

Louis walked over to Harry and sat on the leg that wasn't bleeding, his feet dangling. He placed his hand over Harry's and guided the razor to his hip bone peeking out of the top of his jeans. He moved Harry's hand into his bone carving out the word atrophy deep into his skin.