"So how did this all begin?"

"I liked her flannel."


8. 8.



There will be descriptive self-harm in this chapter. This is a trigger warning. 


February 10, 2012

I can still feel it. The cold blade meeting my skin. I hear the hiss of pain that left my mouth after the first drop of blood falls from the wound I gave myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. 

She looked away. I dragged the the sharp edge across my wrist, this time deeper. My blood stained arm became numb after I opened the skin. No, I need the pain. My hand slowly trailed further up my wrist. A spot where no blood was yet shed. Deeper. More blood. More pain. Less heartbreak. She likes Harry, not you. I quickly sliced deeper into my pale skin. The stinging kept me going. I needed more. She hates you, Louis. I switched wrists and began dragging it across my skin again. The closer to my hand the deeper I cut. I need this. I don't deserve to be happy. I deserve to die for causing that frown upon her gorgeous face. She looked at the fucking floor. Another cut. Flannels. And that was my last thought before my knees gave out and my body hit the ground. 


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