Wroetofreezy One Shots

//3 - healing

TWs: self harm and minor injury detail. depressive episodes are a major part of this story too.

A.N: hey again! i'm gonna upload more shots soon, depending on how quick i can get them all typed up (because i always write my first drafts on paper, that's why it takes me so long to update ^_^*)

Concept: Harry has a bad night, and asks Cal to come and help him clean up after.

[3430 words approx.]

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Harry POV

It's been like this for as long as I can remember. Feeling okay. And then, out of nowhere, just not. If I had to estimate when my first episode happened, I'd say it was when I was fourteen. That was the first time it was intense enough to hinder me anyway. It was the first time I had ever taken up the blade too.

The initial slice is always the worst one. When I was younger, I would sit in the bathroom for hours, turning the blade over, until I finally made that first, stinging incision. After that, all hell breaks loose. The anger towards myself and my condition flows out in a series of brutal, uncoordinated cuts. And when I finally regain some control, it's too late.

I didn't want this to happen today. I never do. But I'd been doing so well. I haven't had an episode for six months, and I've been clean from self harm for ten. It shouldn't be able to fall apart like this. Almost all of my episodes begin the same way. After a really happy time. But after a good time, there's nowhere left to go but down.

So, I fall. Down. Into a pool of despair, misery and anxiety. And there I will stay for two weeks. Hardly leaving my room. Not eating. Not sleeping. Unable to do anything without feeling as if the whole world will engulf me, and sweep me away. This is exactly how I feel now, after going out for the evening with the boys. Vikk. JJ. Simon. Tobi. Josh. Ethan. Cal and Cal...

I'm currently sat in my bathroom, coming down from my rage induced haze, to be awoken by harsh reality. Pain. Blinding pain in my right thigh. The cuts aren't deep, and yet they still bleed profusely, dripping onto the tiled floor. It stings, making me want to try and writhe away from my own leg. Instead, I sit perfectly still, and breathe deep, attempting to calm myself.

Hastily, I grab the cloth that's on the edge of my sink, and start wiping at the blood. As soon as my leg is clean, the cuts just leak more angry, crimson liquid. Panic rises in my throat, and I shakily continue trying to wipe the blood away. The sight is sickening. The white cloth is bleached red, and instead I just hold it to my wounds, biting back tears.

I need help. I can't move to go and get the medical supplies. And my rational side tells me I can't just sit here all night. I need to call someone to help. So, with one hand, I pick up my phone, swipe to speed dial, and call Freezy. I'm shivering now, tears falling freely down my face. The dial tone starts.

Freezy picks up after a few seconds. "Bog? Why are you calling me at this time?" His sleepy confused voice comes through my phone's loudspeaker. I put down the device on my left thigh, and cover my mouth as a sob escapes me.

"Harry? Are you crying?" He asks, worry evident in his tone.

"Yeah..." I sniff, figuring it's best if I just tell the truth straight off. I breathe out shakily. "Cal, I need help." I hear movement through my phone, perhaps him sitting up.

"Sure thing. What's happened?" He says, calmly.

"I've cut myself again Cal. And I can't move. Could you bring me some stuff so that I can clean up?" I whimper.