Scars [Book 1]✅

Nine

"How was school?" Gemma asked her brother when he came bounding inside. He shrugged, taking off his shoes and discarding them to the side.

"Alright, I guess," he lied.

She tilted her head, sighing, "You're honestly a good liar, Harry. But I know that today wasn't a good day. Is there anything you want to talk about?" she asked, and for a second, he considered it. Instead he closed his eyes, shaking his head before jogging up the stairs and into his room.

Harry threw off his jumper and tugged on the ends of his unruly curls, groaning and kicking his drawer. It shook against the wall, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "So stupid," he muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead against the wall. He was mad at himself. Angry that he had let this new school affect him when it was only suppose to help. And that this kid, Louis, kept trying to be friends with him. Because even though Harry liked him a lot, he didn't want to put the innocent boy through the pain and worry the other people that cared for him felt..

"Stupid stupid stupid," he mumbled with a trembling lip, his eyes tearing up as he banged his fist against the wall and stormed into the bathroom. He looked around, letting the tears fall when he saw his horrible state through the mirror- Yes, he still thought he was ugly and fat, but the fact that he was pale as snow, with red cut up arms made him cry in sadness. He saw the way his hair looked so big framing his thin face, and how his lips were a much deeper shade of red then the rest of his white cheeks and forehead. The look of his puffy red eyes and tear stained cheeks. How when he lifted up his shirt he could see his butterfly tattoo, that once meant something that isn't true anymore, curving in with his stomach, where he could see his ribs and hip bones easily. He didn't like the shakiness of his cold thin hands, or the lines that covered his arms, that were so red you could point them out a mile away. But even though he didn't enjoy the look of the cuts, he couldn't let go of the feeling. That feeling of power and pain that replaced the mental stabs of people's words and thoughts. He couldn't let go of that. He needed that, thrived on it.

Do it Harry

Hurt yourself

Cut your arms open

Let them bleed until you pass out

No one will care

No one ever cares, no one loves you, they wouldn't even notice if you die

You're ugly anyway

And fat, and pale, and disgusting

Just punish yourself, you useless fag

Just a couple cuts

Or a lot

"Just shut up!" Harry screamed, banging his fist against the wall, which created a small dent. Harry turned away from the wall, rummaging through drawers and drawers until he came across a clean razor, hiding in a box in the back of the cabinet. He locked the door, easily popping out the blade, a skill he was not proud of.

He brought the blade to his left arm, finding an open spot.

One for being awkward

One for being fat and ugly

One for being a disgrace to the world

One for being useless

Faggot

Freak

He sobbed, dropping the blade onto the ground, hearing it clink with the tile. He stared at the six new cuts, still bright red and bleeding.

Minutes passed as he let himself bleed, before the voices decided he was punished enough. So Harry stood up, rinsing off the cuts and circled the tan wrap around his arm. When he got out, he held in the sobs until he reached his room, letting it all out as he sprawled out on his bed, digging his face into the pillow, and thought; I deserve this.

Meanwhile, Anne had been in the living room when she saw a glimpse of Harry go into the bathroom. She had hoped that he was just relieving himself, but once ten minutes went by she was already crying in Gemma's arms, hearing the muffled sobs of her son, knowing he was doing something, and that she couldn't do anything to help.

"He doesn't deserve this."