Above the Crimson Sky (Sequel to Beneath the Midnight Sky)

XVI. Blood Filters Out the Seam

Self-Harm Trigger Warning. Proceed with caution. Detailed. ⚠️

Five long lost friends lay neatly inside a cardboard box, each individually wrapped in parchment paper. Without even touching them yet, Harry can feel the excitement and itching running through his veins as if he to scratch the yearning or evaporate.

Unpacking the item, he held it between his fingers not putting any pressure on the corners. He didn't want to feel the pain just yet, had to mottle through this ritual. He pulled on the door handle to make sure it was locked before proceeding to pull his jeans halfway down resting at his knees.

Pink and white scars gazed at him without restrictions as if they were saying hello to a friend they had missed. Harry ran his thumb over each one of them, feeling the rough texture of his own skin. The litter of scars under his tiger tattoo formed cluster of a clumpy sensation.

Trying to desperately find a virgin canvas, he pinched his inner thigh and pulled it tight. He grasped the razor firmly, admiring the silver metal reflecting off the fluorescent lighting.

Conscience beginning to set in, he was reminded of his empty promise that he would never be in this position again: but justification lies in the fact that the one he made the promise with had never kept his, and that is why he also contained scars on his esophagus and health. They say an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, but what if the world is already blind, left to its own devices while the rest of us stare in bewilderment?

Blood filters out the seam. Small droplets to remind him he's still thriving, though a half hazard reminder.

The rhythm of his heart rushes to the split skin. Throb. Slice. Pulsate. Carve. Beat. Pump. Like clockwork, keeping a steady motion. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Can't stop now. Eight. Nine. Ten. Lifting off the ground, a small rush creating utopia enters stage left.

Apathy.
Emotionless.
Hopelessness.
Euphoria.

One of these words are not like the other but one of these words are the retribution.

The frequency of blood picked up its pace momentarily before coming to a steady stream. Willing himself into an orgasmic state of being, he rolled his eyes in the back of his head letting out a raspy moan.

The sound of metal hit the floor creating an echo of sound waves throughout the family bathroom of the hospital, bringing him back into a state of reality.

Reality being he was here, in the hospital, with a pounding head and experiencing withdraws from having drugs forced down (at least he told himself so) his throat for the past couple weeks. He hated the fact that he wanted more.

He hated the fact that he broke his verbal contract with a small act of reopening old wounds.

He hated the fact he was sitting on the cold tile, alone, uncertain.

Most of all, he hated the fact there was nothing he could do about it.

He patted his jacket pocket to make sure the key was still there before standing up and pulling up his jeans. The black fabric instantaneously glistened and dried to a stiff texture.
He turned on his heels and walked toward the door, opening it with force as he felt the material brush up against his new wounds. The stinging provided a familiar comfort.

*******

He was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by an awake Zayn and Louis who was watching the television mindlessly.

"Lou...." he breathed in. "I missed you so much."

Surprised to see him, Louis removed himself from Zayn's chest and stood up. He latched his legs onto Harry's waist. To scaffold him, Harry held onto his inner thighs twirling him around affectionately. Zayn rolled his eyes and got out of the bed as well.