Psychotherapy || HS

Ten

SOPHIA'S HOME

Unknown, England

 

She'd never had a patient like Harry Styles. In a way, she wonders if everyone's doubts were correct. Maybe if she hadn't treated him, he would be fine. Was he afraid? Was it her fault? How could she live with herself after allowing such a thing to happen to someone else? Even Bing was right. She was a bad psychologist. It didn't matter how many people she'd treated and helped, she hadn't helped Harry Styles, and that may be the reason he died on Tuesday. The day he fucking hated.

Sophia had gone in that morning to see him. She waited five minutes, ten minutes, an hour. Nearly two hours before she concluded that Harry was not showing up to their session. And it wasn't out of not wanting to because she was all he had left, it was because he physically couldn't. At least he left a note. Sourly sickening and sad.

Whoever sees this (preferably Sophia),

I have lived. I have died. I have been to jail. I have lived in a mental asylum. I was not going to permanently die in a fucking prison cell, as Sophia has kindly pointed out that I would be living in once it was proved that I am not completely out of my mind. I've spent most of my nights staring at the ceiling, searching for a hatch so I could free myself of this hell. I've lied, I've hurt. Hurt myself and thousands of others without even touching them. I'm hated by all but one person, my Sophia.

She is the blood in my veins, though I am prepared to poison that blood. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, but it will kill me. It's best for her to never know the things that truly went through my mind. It's what's best. I have never lied to her, nor have I ever told the full truth. A consolidated consciousness resides in this jail-like place and it makes me feel like I no longer matter. So many people hate me that it seems this lonely, white room is the epitome of my mind. I've had a few nights that things are revealed to me in pieces. In the end, I've learned what a monster I am. The world would do better with one less of me, yes?

Godspeed,

the monster under your bed

A secluded man with thoughts unimaginable, lost and alone in his own world. He rarely slept and when he did, he wished he hadn't. Harry liked to take his anger out on his victims. A man once said that we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful of what we pretend to be. Kurt Vonnegut, to be accurate. Harry Styles was no killer, just an angry adolescent with the mentality of a serial killer fifteen year old. He pretended to be a killer, but wasn't careful with what he pretended to be.

Godspeed was written in his own blood. She knows, Harry Styles, she knows.

---

Harry Styles killed himself using pills that he has collected over the years. From Bing, from first being admitted in the institution up until Sophia took him off of medication. He pretended to be a killer, not afraid of death, not afraid of anything. Harry was not careful of what he pretended to be. And whether it be the pills or the lack of self-awareness, one of the two killed him.

thank you so much for reading this, i plan on editing it soon (and actually editing it, not like how i put off nail polish). i'm so glad you all enjoyed this and i'm sorry for the terrible ending. if i'm telling the truth, i planned on having the story last longer but i lost so much inspiration for this story and i didn't even plan anything for it. i suppose this is the worst a story could ever end. but i do plan on editing it and all. PLEASE READ MY OTHER STORY BURGUNDY, it's very heartfelt and less disturbing. it's cute in its own way. thank you so much for being supportive and cute, i love you so fucking much.