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Cleo Horan

"You know, this was the last thing I expected to be doing tonight." I chuckled under my breath, unable to stop myself. "I haven't gotten high in so long."

"You're welcome." Zayn smiled, inhaling some smoke from his joint as he leaned back on the couch.

Harry was in the shower for the past ten minutes and I decided to come downstairs to drink some water, and that's when I smelled the weed. I found Zayn watching TV and smoking on his own, looking very much relaxed.

And I really fucking envied that, I had been the definition of stress for the past three days.

So I asked him if I could join and he looked very surprised, but now we were both watching some random show while we smoked. And, fuck, this was some strong weed.

Zayn told me he knew where Harry kept his drugs, that's why he'd gotten them. I wondered if it was a good idea for him to be smoking since he was taking painkillers, but he assured me he'd smoked while injured before and it'd been a month since he used any drugs at all, so I cut him some slack.

I honestly didn't know what else I could do in order to silence my thoughts a bit, or even slow them down, and I should've thought of this sooner because I was so fucking relaxed. My muscles finally stopped hurting from all the tension and I could feel my heart beating normally again. I hadn't smoked weed in a long while, I didn't know why I stopped.

It was much easier to get distracted now and I really appreciated some distraction.

The last three days consisted of late nights, hours and hours of research, building an improvised crime board on one of Harry's large windows with a black marker and the files I brought, and just reading and trying to do some research on whatever we could find.

Well, and some crying on my side. I'd never cried this much before and I fucking hated it. I saved that for before I went to sleep, which meant Harry had a private show of my ugly tears and pathetic sobs. I didn't even know why I was crying so much, apparently, it was my brain's way of letting it all out because I felt like I was suffocating most of the time.

Years of fucking lies and I played along like a fool.

I was the most hurt I'd ever been, this was worse than any bullet wound. Probably because I knew it would never heal.

But I was trying to be strong enough, I looked through the files and I tried to find connections, but what I found were new reasons to feel sick and betrayed. My heart was broken and this actually sucked.

There were so many files back in that closet... my mother seemed shocked when she saw them and her denial was fucking ridiculous. The proof was there, what else did she need?

There wasn't much to do about that anymore, because my father was dead. We just had to accept he was a sick human being.

Knowing the truth now, and finally realizing that during my entire life I had worked alongside a child trafficker and looked up to him, made me realize that: fuck it.

Nothing was real... I was a stupid little girl who thought she was making her father proud by practicing and learning his tricks, and I wondered how many times I'd witnessed him actually closing a deal after selling a child.

Did he ever actually stop and switch to guns and drugs? I couldn't trust anything anymore... I was completely numb.

I didn't feel bad about my mother or my brother, also. I'd suffered enough to add others' sufferings along with mine, and I had more important things to worry about now... such as the list.

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