Scars [Book 1]✅

Fifteen

AN: Harry has schizoaffective disorder in this story. I've never made that clear, and had just said schizophrenia but it's actually schizoaffective disorder!!!

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Harry laid in the hospital bed, conscious, yet uncomfortable. The voices were telling him things. Telling him to do things. All were things that he rejected but couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he were to do them.

Hurt yourself

Right here in the hospital

Throw away your pills

Throw away all the new pills they give you and don't listen to anyone

They only pity you, you know you hate when people only stay to pity you

Like Louis. He's only here to pity you, just tell him off and don't talk to him, stay away from him.

Don't talk to anyone, ever

You can kill yourself, you should

"No!" Harry shouted, his hands covering his ears, clogging all the sound out. That caused his mum and the doctor to look at him, both of them rushing over.

Anne took Harry's hands, holding them tightly and rubbing the knuckles, "Harry, love, you're alright. The voices can't hurt you if you ignore them. Just ignore them," she spoke softly, and Harry's eyes snapped shut.

"They told me t-to hurt myself! A-And to throw away the pills!" he exclaimed, tears running freely down his cheeks, "they told me n-not to talk to a-any of you! And t-to stay away from L-Louis!" he sobbed, letting his head fall into his lap. "B-But I c-can't," he whimpered, "th-they said to k-kill myself," he whispered in between his sobs, and he was so busy breaking down that he hadn't realized his mother crying and clueless, not knowing what to do. The doctor had left them alone to get some sleeping pills for him. She had known all about his mental disorder, and knew that Harry's schizoaffective disorder  couldn't physically hurt him unless he was alone. But Anne was there so the doctor was safe to leave them alone.

"Harry, calm down. They can't hurt you. You won't do any of that," his mum spoke gently, rubbing his back.

Harry's eyes opened slowly, his breathing hard, and looked into his mothers eyes, "W-Why am I h-here? Really," he whispered to her, blinking away at the tears left on his eyelashes.

Anne glanced down and sighed, "When was the last time you ate, Harry? An actual meal?"

"I-I don't know," he mumbled, "last time we saw Dad," he muttered, keeping his eyes locked on the end of the bed.

Anne gasped quietly, squeezing her son's hand tighter, "Harry, that was almost over a month ago," she told him. Though he didn't answer, because he knew that she was right and that he was just trying to convince himself that it hadn't been that long. "Harry, love, if you continued not eating for much longer, than you could have done some real damage to yourself," she said, "the doctor told me you are Anorexic. I know you wouldn't want to have to stay here for weeks to fix that."

Harry nodded in agreement. But he couldn't get the word out of his head. Anorexic. He was Anorexic. And he hated it. He didn't want to be seen that way. And he tried to drop the subject of it. But the word kept playing like a song he couldn't get out of his head. As hard as he tried, the melody of the syllables joining together ran through his mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly horrid as the last, like a nightmare, like a horror film, and he didn't think he could ever forget the sound of hearing it.