Alter ➳ h.s

p r o l o g u e
what is there left?
harry

Flashing cameras blinding me, I reach my hand out to attempt to feel the black paint of the SUV. The only thing that could bring me solitude and closure at the moment was the inside of the quiet and safe vehicle. Grabbing claws of the monsters reached for what they saw as my body but what felt like what was left of my soul. The monsters were from under my bed and now harassing me, taking all the joy out of knowing people and kissing and dating out of life and replacing it with hatred. What is there left after they’ve taken your life?

Screams of my name echoed and I was ready to burst, but I learned to hold it in. They know it’s driving me crazy, they know. So why do they keep sniffing me out? I try and hide in the dark but they always bring the bright lights to my face. As if I’d asked for it. I asked for a nice time and a couple of friends, not a burden. That’s what this all is; a burden, a load to carry for now three plus years. I’m losing a grip on reality, and in a way, it’s good for me. For reality is what’s holding me back, it’s gone from paradise to hell in a matter of fifty years.

Celebrities have come and gone, all describing fame as either the worst or best thing to happen to them. But as the days get shorter and the celebrities from the 20th century start to vanish into the ground of death, it gets worse. More and more people going to rehab and plain losing it. I’ll be one of them soon. One of Those People. The ones that get frowned upon if they make one mistake because they’ve never made one to the public eye before. The ones who are shunned because they are no longer Hollywood’s perfect little angel. That will be me, I’m sure.

The flashes die down once I get inside the car with tinted windows. I wear sunglasses to hide the bags under my eyes that were stuffed with exhaustion. I can’t sleep. My therapist says I have PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’m an insomniac with PTSD. The anxiety heats up when around fans and the paparazzi, I just can’t take it. Then, I take the medication, which is supposed to make you drowsy, and never sleep. I attempt to lie down and rest but nightmares haunt me everytime I close my eyes. It’s frightening.

Sometimes I accidentally fall asleep and end up scaring myself awake with sweats and visions. That’s why Louis forces me into living with him now. The angst inside my body is nearly beyond repair. I believe Dr. Griffin, my therapist, even thinks that as well. Everyone thinks I’m slowly but surely losing my mind, I think so too. Dr. Griffin describes me as a stained glass window. I’m easy to look through, it’s just some people don’t look hard enough. Her analogies aren’t always the best but I’ve always understood.

The car seat was warm while Paul drove. He called from the front, “Harry.” I was laid down in the backseat, fetal position, “You alright? Need anything?”

The thought of what he thought was going on brought the anxiety worse but I pushed out a shaky, “No. I’m good.” They continue to take pictures of just the car drive away and it makes me wonder; if I were to have an anxiety attack right on the pavement, clutching onto someone for dear life, would they continue to take pictures? Would they care? The stories they’d come up with would drive me crazier: Harry Styles Passes Out From Drug Overdose. That's only from my glasses falling off.

People—fans wonder what happened to Harry Styles and there’s nothing I can tell them. Management won’t tell them and I won’t tell them that their precious Harry only smiles for the cameras yet sits in a dark corner of either a therapy room or a bedroom to use up the time he’s not recording or rehearsing. That’d upset a lot of girls and a lot of parents. That’s why we keep the things we do from the fans, in fear of breaking them to the point where they leave us. I’ve already left myself, I can’t have them leaving me too.

And so, the rumors keep surfacing. They just pile on top of each other and they’re too hard to control. The rumors of Louis and I have come back up because I moved in. They think we’re onto “the next level”. If the next level includes a friend losing whatever they have left in a jumbled mind of money and fame and only moving in because he’s too afraid to live alone, then yeah, Louis and I are getting pretty serious. Girls no longer want to date me because of my attitude towards them; blunt and secretive, all resulting in break-ups and the reason being because of suspected cheating. I just like to stay at home a lot.

Dr. Griffin has also began to notice signs of depression—it doesn’t take a therapist to know I’m depressed—and schizophrenia. She says my paranoia is dangerous and the voices in my head are getting worse. I think she’s giving up as much as I have. She says I have slight delusions. I know I have people around me that care and want to help but it seems they’re all against me. Telling me that it’s okay when nothing is okay. Mum’s trying to get me to move back in but I tell her that it’s safer for me to live with Louis for now. I’ve hit Louis a few times; it’s the paranoia.

I remember once I actually tried to sleep. Louis came in late from a date with Eleanor around midnight. It was cold outside and in the flat. I was on the couch and now known for tossing and turning, he says he didn’t want me to fall so he tried to wake me up. He shook me but when I woke up, I thought I saw a pillow. I thought he was trying to suffocate me. That’s when I punched him and tried to run but through the blood dripping out of his cut lip, he grabbed me and just held me. And you have to be pretty fucked up to sit with your best friend through an unknown anxiety attack for thirty minutes.

He stopped letting me get away with the symptoms of PTSD and told me to talk to Dr. Griffin. I’ve told her everything since. Paul asked again, “Harry, are you okay?”

I snapped, “I’m fine.” He threw back a pill bottle and instructed me to take two. It was my anxiety medicine; I was still laying down, I realized. A bottle of water sat in the middle console and I took the medication. Dr. Griffin plans on prescribing some more meds. I just can’t take having to swallow all of this though, even one pill decides to kill me, how can I take four or five a day? Plus I could probably forget a few days and it’d result in a relapse. No one wants that. Liam and Zayn have forced me out of drinking, but a smoking habit has resulted in the withdrawal. I’m sure smoking and taking these pills aren’t helping me at all but it’s better than nothing.

Paul came up to the building and told me to sit up, put on my glasses, and smile. We were getting out. He cracked the window so I could get some air before we walked out into the breathing and spit from girls yelling and crying. Paul got out first and came to open the door for me, holding my back. He protects me from the outside world but what’s starting to hurt worse is the world inside my head. It’s getting darker and darker by the second. Once we got inside, everything was quiet. The screams were still loud but zoned out by the thick glass windows.

“This way,” Paul instructed as if I didn’t know my way around. There was a meeting today, we were to all meet at 5:04. It was 5:03. This is because Simon is the type of person who is so busy, he has to be exactly on time or else the whole thing is ruined and his time is wasted. I was the last to arrive at exactly 5:04 and everyone was looking at me once I took my glasses off.

“Harry,” Simon said, “you look worse than last week.” His concern was growing and it was more my mental health than how many albums we were selling. “That’s what this meeting is about. Harry, as many time as you tell us, you aren’t fine. We all love and worry about you.” He sat down, “Are you still seeing Dr. Griffin?”

“Yes.”

“Anything new?”

“She has skepticism that I have schizophrenia and depression. But, uh, no, nothing new.” He nodded and pursed his chapped lips. His normal white shirt was a bit dingier. There were no stains but he was wearing the shirt so much now that the color was starting to fade out of it.

“Okay. Uh, okay.” Simon’s never been one to never know what to say so for him to literally not know what to say now was a shock. “Still taking your medication?” I nodded, “Haven’t snapped on anyone lately?”

“Not recently.” He asked how recent, “Two months ago.” The rest of the boys: Niall, Zayn, Liam, and Louis just sat there with sad eyes. I can only imagine how they must feel to watch their friend crumble to nothing except some nice hair and an occasional good-looking face that was rotting away sooner rather than later. He asked about how often I smoked, “Once a day.” He gave me a look, “Seriously. Once.”

He nodded. “Okay.” Simon sighed and pushed himself back up to a chart, a graph. “Your album sellings have gone through the roof and we want to make an impromptu trip to America. The fans are worried about all of you, especially Harry and we need to show them that everyone and everything is okay.”

“—But it’s not okay,” argued Zayn.

“But they don’t need to know that.”

Notes

This story is one that is going to be highly depressing, sorry. I'm basically writing Harry's point of view in mine. This is basically how I would feel if I had people constantly following me: watched, exploited, and used just for entertainment. It's sad, and I don't know how people deal with it. I hope you enjoy yet another depressing story from me... sorry.

love your cute faces x

p.s. XOXOH says I have too many stories... I'm starting to think it's true