Hurt
Notes: Much like my Time series, this is just in my head and won’t leave. It’s a bit different than most of my other writing. It’s definitely got some sensitive implications and topics (please read the warnings below). I am definitely not well-versed—if you will—in what I’m about to write but I wanted to write something along with this song because I find it so heartbreakingly sad but lovely. In a weird way, I focus on the hope at the end (hence why you will see a bit of my regular self in this writing). I’m not stupid though: I know this is completely unrealistic. It has nothing to do with the actual scenario and everything to do with the song and if you squint it’s reminiscent of Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash and their undeniable infatuation with one another and how she would stick by him no matter what. That’s what I was going for. Please read the warnings below and don't read if you are struggling.
I promise Normal People Part 2 will be next. But when inspiration strikes you roll with it.
Warnings: implications of substance abuse, drugs, alcohol, pills, implications of overdosing. I think this could be very triggering so 18+, no minors allowed. Harry is basically used as a figure and not used for his actual character of course. If you would like to talk or chat my asks and messages are always open, and I love you all so much. This is your last chance to click away.
A special thank you to @a-strange-familiar and @adoringyouliz for reading ahead of time to help me decide if I should post this.
What have I become? / My sweetest friend / everyone I know / goes away, in the end / and you could have it all / my empire of dirt / I will let you down / I will make you hurt
She danced in the edges of his vision. He wasn’t completely high nor drunk, but he wasn’t quite sober. It was a regular occurrence now. His head aching with pain that wouldn’t subside without the familiar comfort of something in his system. It didn’t matter which vice he chose.
But then everything was shifting in his head. Something about how he felt was changing. “What did I do?” He murmured to himself. His eyelids fluttered close as he smushed his face into the pillow of his bed. He had been doing so good. So good for her. He could hear her scolding him now for doing this to himself. For hurting himself—and by extension her.
But he was just so sad.
And tired.
It was just not him to continue doing this, but he couldn’t help himself. It hurt less to be numb like this. When he wasn’t expected to do anything. When he could just lay there on his bed and not think of anything.
Nothing but her.
He managed to put his phone near his face. Blearily he texted as many of his friends as he could hoping someone would answer him late in that deafening early night. Nothing good ever happened after midnight unless she was around. But he couldn’t bring himself to bother her. To tell her that he hurt himself...again.
He was tired of being the one needing saving. He wanted to save her but didn’t know how. What could he give her, really? This dingy one bedroom with a mess in every corner of it? Including the mess in his head that was wrapped up in blankets on a dingy mattress?
Harry cracked the window early in the evening to release the smell of stale smoke from his room; with it open now, letting the cold breeze in, he was chilled to the bone. If he was smart, he would shut it. Or maybe if he had the strength, he would shut it. But instead, he stayed snuggled in his blankets.
No one he messaged answered his texts. They were used to his bouts and fits of spiraling. There was a bottle of pills on the floor near his phone and hand mocking him. He spilled several out of the bottle onto the floor. He pushed them into a ring of pain that he thought (and maybe hoped) would end if he took each one from the circle and swallowed it.
The minutes ticked by on his phone, and he thought he should just text her. If he texted her, she would make it better. Even when she didn’t want to, she always answered his calls.
But he couldn’t. She insisted that last time was the last time. The last time she would save him. She was exhausted. Tired of fixing him, tired of hoping, tired of waiting. She was really the sweetest. He could see it pained her to leave. Just like everyone else. She didn’t want to leave—maybe almost as much as he wanted her to stay. But he hurt her just as much as he hurt himself. He didn’t blame her, of course he didn’t. It was his fault.
All my fault. Always my fault. It was the one thing he best: pushed everyone away from him.
He never thought he would push her away.
So when he pulled the final string and broke her and made her leave, he did some soul searching. When she finally told him not to call her anymore when he needed her. Not to talk to her and to lose her number for good. But he couldn’t. He adored her. Even in his broken brain, he knew he loved her beyond reason and if he could just get it together, it would be for her and no one else.
But today was a bad day for him. He was sad, cold, devastated and broken beyond reason. He couldn’t do anything right at work. Dropping at least three glasses, getting into it with a belligerent customer, and arguing with his manager (even if they were what Harry would consider friends), and it just piled and piled. He was itching to leave the stupid bar where he poured drinks for people who were drunk, and he thought it was unfair they could be so at ease while drinking and he couldn’t.
It started with one drink.
It’s just a drink he thought.
But one drink turned into another. And the pain subsided. But only for a half hour or so. So, he had another. And that drink turned into a cigarette and Niall told him to wait just another hour before his shift was over and then he would drive him home. The second Harry crossed the threshold of his apartment, he was clawing at his arms, his fingers scraping skin under his nails, begging for a relief of some kind that he wanted more than anything. He wanted to feel numb. But the shrivel of rationality that hid in his brain—with the voice that sounded so much like her—was screaming at him to do anything but what he wanted to do.
Instead, he begged his neighbor—whose apartment permeated the smell of weed down the entire hall of the building—to let him in and have whatever he was willing to give him. That was hours and hours ago. Harry doesn’t remember the sixth and seventh drink. He doesn’t remember how he got the pills.
The only thought in his head reminded him that she would be mad at him. That made him feel worse. But even still, this felt worse than normal. Something about the way everything mixed: the feel of his nails scraping his skin, the alcohol, the pills, the weed. His head was aching as he looked at the pills—was there one less now? He couldn’t remember.
He just wanted to sleep. But when he slept, the thoughts of her were inescapable. Her beautiful smile, her lilting laugh, her gentle encouragement, her humor, her intelligence. Her entire being overwhelmed him and the only comfort he had was knowing she would star in his dreams. While it was delightful to see his angel while asleep, it made waking up so much harder. Especially now she had been gone for so long. It was a tease to see her in the dreams and then not have her at all. It made him mad and sad.
But sleep was winning over him. The pills and alcohol, along with the open window made his body shiver. He rubbed his face into the pillow and let his eyes close. At least he would see her soon.
If I could start again / a million miles away / I would keep myself / I would find a way
There was so much banging against the door. He thought it was weird they allowed that in the hotel. He supposed it probably made sense given it was now morning and he was still asleep. He probably overstayed his welcome again; slept through the cleaning ladies kindly asking him to leave. He should have gotten up, but his limbs felt so heavy he thought he would die trying to lift them.
The banging subsided finally, and he rested into a deeper sleep for all but a second. He didn’t dream of her—that was odd. He always dreamed of her. Maybe he finally pushed her out of his dreams too. The thought broke his heart and if he was awake, fully, he would have cried. He wanted to see her so bad. Wanted to envision her one last time before—
“Harry!” She shouted. It jolted his brain awake but not his body or eyes. She was definitely there. Her shout was too loud to be a dream. He wondered where she was—wanted to reach for her in the bed. Maybe she was having a nightmare.
Why was she at the hotel with him? Were they together again? On vacation? Surely, he would have remembered her careful planning. He couldn’t name one thing on her itinerary—how could he forget? Not remembering her itinerary, waking up late, that would be more grounds for her to leave for good. When did she come back? It was weird he didn’t remember that. He should have. Her coming back would have saved him that cold night.
“Harry, baby,” she cried. “Harry, please,” she begged. “It’s in the medicine cabinet!” She shouted. “Hurry!” He felt her warm hands on his face, but his eyelids felt just as heavy as his limbs. “Baby, please wake up,” she sobbed. It felt so sad she was so upset. He liked the way baby sounded on her lips. He liked being her baby. It made him feel flooded with the warmth of her love.
There was a cold sensation in his nose that tickled the inside and he wanted to jerk his head away, but his neck wasn’t moving. He wanted to rub it away from his nose, but he couldn’t; his limbs weren’t working the way he wanted them to.
All at once he was awake. He sat up, gasping, coughing, and sputtering but she was right there in his arms. She looped her arms around his neck, and she breathed out a shaky cry against him. He was shaking all over as his arms wound around her waist. He felt weak—he wanted to squeeze her to his body, but he felt like his limbs weren’t his own. He shook his aching head as he glanced over her shoulder to see the white nasal spray on the floor. He tried to piece it together more quickly, but he couldn’t. “Jesus Christ, Harry,” she sobbed in his ear.
He felt so nauseous he couldn’t even respond before he was throwing up over her shoulder like a baby but only so much worse. She didn’t even move. She wasn’t even fazed. She continued to cry into his neck as his body shivered and sweated.
But she was there.
She pulled back, the acidic smell of vomit not deterring her even slightly. She was so much better in real life than his visions and dreams. She was a vision. He had no right to look at this angelic being.
“M’sorry love,” it wasn’t Harry that said it. “I should have answered.”
She turned to glare at Harry’s best friend in the doorway and then she shook her head. She looked back at Harry. “Are you alright?” She whispered.
He nodded in stunned silence trying to make the pieces work together. This wasn’t a hotel. This was his apartment. He didn’t dream her. She was here. It was the cold night still. He was freezing. “You can leave,” she sniffled at his friend in the doorway. She put her hands on Harry’s chest, fiddled with the neckline of his shirt, picking at the edge of it. Harry was so confused. So shaky. He was sweating something fierce and the uneasiness in his stomach wasn’t helping.
“Harry,” Mitch said, dropping his hand from the doorframe. Harry looked up at him in complete confusion as to what was going on. His friend looked like he had seen a ghost. “This is it: don’t lose her,” he said.
He didn’t know what to say, he knew he was right, for whatever reason that may be. He nodded at him. When he heard the door click shut, he blinked at the headache behind his eyes. “Wh—what happened?” He asked tentatively. His throat was scratchy.
“Harry,” she said, her voice breaking so horribly Harry wanted to cry himself. It was his fault she was so upset. It was his fault. It always was.
“I-I don’t remember,” he mumbled. He really wanted some water. She must have sensed that. She untangled herself from him and she rubbed her eyes quickly. She stripped herself of her clothes. Harry was so affronted by how comfortable she was to do so. He was so utterly confused. Nothing about this dream made sense. “Am I dreaming?”
She snorted through her tears. “This is not a time to flirt, Harry,” she mumbled.
“M’not,” he pouted in confusion. He wasn’t. He was used to her naked figure. He liked the bra she was wearing. It was pink and contrasted to her skin so beautifully he could have cried. It matched the lace that failed to cover her perfect butt as she yanked open a dresser drawer. She selected a pair of Harry’s sweats and yanked another drawer open to get a shirt. She pulled her hair into a bun atop her head and somehow, even with the smell of vomit assaulting his nose, she was by far the most gorgeous being he'd ever seen.
But he wasn’t flirting. He had seen her before and sure he loved seeing her like this, but he knew instinctively it wasn’t the time.
She grabbed another set of clothes and turned back to him; crouched in front of him; between his knees. She looked at his arms. Raw with claw marks from his own nails. She ran her fingertips over the reddened paths, and she tilted his forearms every which way. Inspecting them. Harry felt utterly exposed.
“I didn’t do that,” he told her. He knew what she was looking for. He wanted to explain that the last time she left he stopped. It wasn’t much but it was something he knew he had to stop. She turned her gaze to his eyes. Her lashes were sparkling with tears, the corners red and her pupils widened in disbelief. He cleared his scratchy throat. “Just...pills,” he said quietly. She nodded silently.
“C’mon,” she sniffled tugging him to a standing position. His stomach protested immediately. “Oh shit,” he said putting a hand to his mouth. She beelined for the small trash can she gifted his room when he moved in and put it under his chin just as he vomited once more. Unfazed again, she rubbed her hand on his back as she guided him to his bathroom.
It was a mess. Towels and clothes piled behind the door barely allowing her to open it. She pushed Harry to sit on the toilet lid. She grouped the clothes and towels in her arm and threw them outside the door. She took stock of the shower; it wasn’t the cleanest shower she’d ever seen but it wasn’t as dirty as she expected. She turned on the water feeling the warmth before she pulled Harry’s shirt over his head. He was freezing and shivering. Goosebumps plagued his body. His head was clearing only slightly. Like he was fogged up from too long of a nap. “Are you going to throw up again?” She asked as she pulled his pants down like a toddler.
He felt completely embarrassed the way she was so...mechanically, near medically taking care of him...it was routine for her. “No.”
She nodded; her eyes blank. “Shower, please,” she pulled the shower curtain back for him to get in. Without another word or another order, she closed the door behind her. Harry swallowed nervously. Terrified she was leaving. But he would rather die than not listen to her.
Again.
So he got in the shower.
*
When he exited the shower, he realized she must have reentered the bathroom while he was in a daze of warm water easing his aching and shivering body. There was a warm fluffy towel on top of the second set of clothes. His stomach didn’t hurt so much anymore. And the need for water was getting stronger. He wondered where she got the towel from. He hadn’t done laundry in a long while. Harry brushed his teeth to rid himself of the taste of vomit.
She opened the door as Harry tugged the sweats around his hips. She was still just as beautiful as she was when he looked her over in his bedroom. And she held a glass of water in her hand. It made her even more beautiful.
“Go lay down,” she was ordering again.
He wasn’t going to disobey her.
She closed the door behind him as he exited, and he heard the water turn back on. He wished he had her hair stuff, her moisturizer...like when she used to be here all the time. He wanted to make her feel at home. But it didn’t matter because she locked the door anyway. He pressed his ear to the door listening to her soft cries in between the streams of water. He closed his eyes and sighed. He gripped the cup of water tightly aching at the sound of her sadness.
He returned to his bedroom to find it almost totally organized. She was quick. The mess of clothes that hadn’t been washed was gone. The sheets and blankets that he’d been sick on were nowhere to be seen but he could vaguely hear the washer going in the other room. A new set of sheets and blankets were fluffed on his mattress. The smell of apple spice filled his room from the lit candle and the window was still open, but it seemed warm now. Like she brought a warm breeze to replace the cold the filled the room. He was ogling the space when she brushed past him and took the brush off his dresser to yank it through her hair.
“Not s’rough, kitten,” he murmured. She glanced at him. Her anxious expression softening just a bit at his gentle command. He had no right, but he loved her and her gorgeous hair. He didn’t want her head to hurt. She paused her actions for a moment before she pulled more delicately through her damp hair. Once done with her hair, she tugged the covers back and nodded her head at him.
“Get in,” she said firmly.
He swallowed nervously looking at the bed and then her. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t take it anymore. Mitch’s words rang through her head. This is it. “Are you leaving?” He croaked. He couldn’t lose her. If he lost her, he wished she didn’t even come to his place tonight. Someone could have found him in a few days.
“No, Harry. M’not,” she said softly. He felt the tension in his chest release knowing she wasn’t going to leave. As soon as she saw he was cemented into the corner of his bed near the wall, she blew out the candle and closed the window so just a crack was left to keep the air flowing. She flicked the light switch and drenched the two of them in darkness.
His eyes didn’t adjust to the complete blackness, so he was a tad startled when she slipped into bed beside him. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to hold her, caress her, and cradle her. She saved him again, as she always did. He wanted to kiss her in thanks. Whisper to her that it would never happen again.
Harry didn’t know if he could fall asleep. The adrenaline was still fluttering in his veins. His head still hurt a bit and he ached and shivered. But her hand reached out and rested on his heart. He knew it was beating erratically. Calling out a rhythm that only an eventful night like his could have. “I was dreaming about you,” she whispered. “I always do...and I woke up terrified. So, I called you,” her voice was near silent. Harry had to strain to hear. “You answered... but didn’t say anything. And I just knew...” she shook her head. Harry listened intently trying to piece his night together. “You scared me so fucking bad, Harry Styles...I screamed and screamed through the phone. I was running here. I didn’t even grab my keys,” she whimpered. “I was calling everyone I knew, and I was banging on your door waking everyone in the building up. They probably hate me,” she said. “I had an axe in my hand ready to cut the door down when Mitch came with the key.”
Harry wanted to laugh because that sounded exactly like something she would do for him. But he couldn’t laugh. It wasn’t funny. Poor Mitch. Harry thought.
“Poor Mitch,” she mumbled.
He smirked weakly. Grateful for the dark because he shouldn’t have been smiling. Not about this. Not about her being scared...about Harry’s wellbeing. “M’sorry.”
“Harry,” she whispered. “You have to stop,” she said. “I can’t...live without you. But I can’t live with you like this.”
“I know,” he said simply. He didn’t argue. She was quiet for a few moments.
“I thought you died,” she sniffled.
He reached out, finally. “M’sorry,” he repeated letting his hand cup the side of her face. He rubbed his thumb along her cheek feeling the dampness from her eyes pool onto her skin.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to do something,” she said harshly. “I thought I lost you.”
He wanted to do something about it too. He couldn’t take when she was distraught. Every single time she was distraught, it was his fault. He imagined her running through the dark streets, screaming and terrified that he’d finally left this earth. It explained the dream vacation. His heavy limbs. He imagined her shouting, grabbing the axe for emergencies outside the apartment door across from the fire extinguisher—ready to get to Harry however she had to. Through his dreamlike state, he knew she was there reviving his broken and sad soul. “I think you would be better off,” he mumbled.
She turned, presumably to face Harry but he still couldn’t see. “Harry,” her voice scolding him again, but it was gentle this time. “I would die if something happened to you,” she said it so with such an obvious tone. As if it was the most apparent thing in the world. “I don’t...I don’t know what else to say.”
“You should really leave me,” he was starting to wallow. It was the same routine. He could feel the dread setting in.
“Harry, baby,” she cooed knowing all the phases of his self-pity. Even when she should have been screaming at him. Leaving him. Certainly not lying in bed beside him. She reached out and put her hands on either side of his face. He wished he could see her, but it felt like she could the way he cupped his face in her hands. “I love you. And I’m never going to stop. So, you have me, regardless of what you do to your body. But I would appreciate it if you would try to keep yourself around so I’m not so sad and miserable all the time worrying about you,” she whispered.
“’Ve never deserved you...still don’t.”
“I don’t care,” she promised. Her lips were closer to his face. Her breath enveloping all of his senses. She was the best high he’d ever had. “I want all of you.”
He felt dizzy to hear her sweet words. She was so fucking lovely. “Why?” He asked.
Her nose bumped into his. She shook her head and sighed. “I just do,” she whispered.
“You’re an idiot.”
“So be it.”
He swallowed. “M’scared.”
“I know. I am too.”
“You love me?”
“With every breath.”
They were silent for a few moments. Just the sound of their breath mixing together. “I might mess up,” his voice was so quiet. She brushed her thumbs below his lashes. He wondered if she could feel the tears working their way out of his eyes.
“I need you to try, Harry."
He pressed his forehead to hers. He closed his eyes; he was finally tired. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said softly.
He smirked. “M’so fucking sorry,” he promised.
“I know that, too,” she nodded. “Against my better judgement, I’m so unbelievably in love with you. I can’t lose you. I won’t stand for it.”
“Kitten,” his voice broke again.
“What, baby?”
“Can I kiss you?” He felt strangled by the words. He feared her rejection. He wouldn’t blame her. She could love him and love him and never want to kiss him or touch him ever again. It would make sense. There was surely a limit on the number of times she could save him. A limit on the number of times she wanted to save him.
He felt so low. So broken. Who on earth would want him and his stupid self? His messy apartment and messy head?
“Please, kiss me Harry,” she breathed. Hope bloomed in his chest like nothing he had ever felt before. It was warm and beautiful.
He slotted his lips over hers. He kissed her so deeply she felt it in every crevice of her broken heart. It was patching the holes he left the last time they fought and argued. The last time they were together before tonight. It felt like healing. The vision of Harry: his lifeless curls, his pale face. All faced down in his bed, drooling, his eyes closed as if he was sleeping but looking so...she shook her head and pulled from his lips. She kissed his cheeks shaking her head of the image more, hiding from it. Trying to keep the tears of almost losing her best friend from falling again. “You need to sleep. You’re going to be mean tomorrow,” she pulled from his face carefully before she pressed another kiss to his lips that made all the pain leave his body.
“Yeah,” he sighed thinking about the withdrawal he was about to go through. Again. She kissed his lips again, replacing the bad feelings with more hope and love. “You’ll be here?”
“Don’t know where else I’d be,” she said softly. Sleepily. She ran her fingers up and down his chest. Her legs tangled with his. It was reflexive. A memory of the days before this cold night. It made him warmer. This time was different. He doesn’t know why. But he felt it in every achy and cold blood vessel that was blooming with love for her. His angel.
He brought his hand to her face again, his palm pressed to her cheek. “Think m’gonna love you forever.”
“As long as we have forever.”
“Thank you,” he said finally. “We will,” he promised. “M’sure of it.”
