My Habit from This Town

1) You Should Be Here

Song for this chapter is You Should Be Here by Cole Swindell

**Louis' P.O.V**

Shit. I knew i should've been more subtle. Then I wouldn't be in this mess! Why the hell did I trust her? Because I loved her. That's why. But I don't now. For the second time, my heart has been shredded in the "homely town of Doncaster". The love of my life has been ripped away from me. But this time, I was being pulled.

I am such a fuck up! Now, because of a fucking mistake, I am being dragged away from the only home I've ever known, ever wanted, to be taken to Wolverhampton. It is only two hours away, I'm told, but it feels as if we have been driving for days. I am already homesick. I keep telling people I don't need help! I'm not suicidal! It was just a cut or two. They weren't even deep.

"This is bullshit" I mutter under my breath, hoping mum doesn't hear. She is already so disappointed in me. She won't care what I think.

"You may think this is bullshit, Louis, but it's your own fault. I told you to tell me if you begin to relapse! I don't want to almost lose you again, because we may not be as lucky. You know I don't want to send you this far, but Dr. Penrose told me that this place is the best. Going here will decrease your chance of relapsing AGAIN!! So Louis, I don't care if you think this is bullshit. You are going. You are spending your 18 months here, and you are going to get better." Shit. She heard. I hated making her yell.

"Please? Just try?" She whispered as a single tear rolled down her face.

"How long until we get there?" I grudgingly asked, not entirely answering her question.

"An hour and a half."

Fuck. We had only been driving for thirty minutes. The journey would feel like a lifetime.

I hated how familiar this heart-wrenching pain felt. My best friend was taken from me when we were just five years old. I never knew why. He gave me a note one day after a play-date, crying. I thought nothing of it. I didn't even know if I could read the note. Haz was always so advanced, reading and writing at a very young age. I was struggling however. Bottom of the class. A failure from birth. He didn't see me as a failure though. He helped me try to catch up. I'm still not the brightest, but the only reason I wasn't held back was Haz.

I can't remember his real name. It's been 11 years now. I'm 16. I haven't had to remember it, as much as I want to. He was the only real friend I had. I miss him.

I close my eyes and try to find some clear memories of him, as they are becoming blurry. I try so hard to keep them alive, but it's too hard to remember everything. The only one that is completely clear is the only sleepover we ever had. The last night I ever saw him. I had them cheap glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on my ceiling, like every other kid my age. But it felt more real when I was with him. We played that we were camping, and made a den to sleep in. It was just a blanket covering the gap between my bed and my drawers, but it felt so real. It was magical. Everything was magical with him. He had the cutest curly hair, and these mystically-green eyes. I used to think I loved him, but I was 5! I would have loved anyone who shared their cookie with me. Gender wasn't a problem back then. It was just two kids "messing around as kids do".

It broke me that we never saw each other again. That's why I first started cutting. It just hit me one day soon after my 11th birthday.... on his; February 1st. I've never forgotten it. I can't. It means too much to me. On this day, I got this sudden pang of loss, almost as if I was mourning. I felt the only way to feel better was to release this pain. I started punching my pillow, but I felt I had to break something to feel relieved. So I punched my wooden bed frame, hoping for more luck in damage. It didn't work until I punched it so hard, I cut my hand. This release of pressure from under my skin felt amazing. I had been warned about this at school. I had been told it was bad, and I shouldn't do it. but I couldn't help it. We were shown images of people "mutilating" themselves, usually on their arms, and I could vividly remember thinking "how could putting yourself in pain make you feel better?" This image of scarred arms came up in my brain,but it didn't seem as bad, so I went into the bathroom, found a sharp object and ran it along my skin until blood came out. It felt so amazing. Until it didn't. I started to regret it but it became a habit. A habit caused through pain. I only had one friend, a girl called Eleanor. I slowly fell in love with her, and she eventually admitted she felt the same.

Then she saw my arms. I made her swear not to tell anyone, and in return, I would stop hurting myself. She agreed, but made me promise that if I ever did it again, she would tell. I didn't stop right away though, and she understood I couldn't just go 'cold-turkey'.

One day, I cut too deep. I ended in hospital, fighting for my life. I lost so much blood. That's when mum found out. She insisted I got help, but I begged her. She eventually gave in, but only after I threatened to leave her. She gave me one chance. I had to stop immediately or she would force me to get help. And I was doing well.

I was 6 months clean, but then Haz's birthday came around. I felt the same aching pain of loss all over again. Mum wasn't home, so I was safe. One time, one last time, wouldn't hurt. Eleanor walked in. I forgot I had invited her round. She couldn't keep her mouth shut. I tried to explain but she didn't listen. And that brought me to my current situation. Driving far away for some useless help that wasn't going to help me at all. I was sure of it.
None of this would have happened if you didn't leave. You should be here. I'll always love you Haz. You and your green eyes 💚.