Harry Styles Shorts and One Shots

Keys 5

Word count: 2,370
Tw: gun violence, abuse, kidnapping

Y/n

Agony. Raw, intense agony radiates through my skull that is incapable of using any muscles to move. I'm surprisingly comfortable where I lay, feeling a plush pillow beneath my throbbing head.

My eyes force themselves open, recognizing nothing but an intimidating blackness surrounding me. I have no idea where I am, and I have no source of light.

I reach my hand out, feeling an empty bed beside me. Turning the other way, my forearm smacks what feels like a table. My palm fumbles onto the surface, following a short, thin lamp post up to the dangling metal cord that rests beneath the apparent shade.

I pull it.

Light fills the room, making me wince and turn away from the sudden intrusion. Everything is still a bit blurry, doing my best attempt to sit up on the bed that I've been laid in. My vision focuses, seeing that I'm in my old bedroom at my dad's estate.

"No," I mutter to myself, tears instantly clouding my eyes. "No, no, no."

Wobbling, I walk up to my door, yanking on the doorknob as I cry out for help. My body turns, leaning against the door to see my tiny window, freshly barred and reminding me even more of a prison now.

"Help!" I scream, my voice weak and strained. "Please."

Loud thumping raps outside the door, feeling it swing open, knocking me on my unstable legs to the floor.

"You'll shut the hell up," a voice scolds firmly, my cheek pressed to the carpet. "Boss will be in soon."

"H-Harry," my voice croaks. "Where's Harry?"

The man scoffs behind me. "That rat got what was coming to him."

"No," I sob into the ground beneath me. "No, please."

"Stop your whining and shut the fuck up." The door slams shut.

Sobs pull from my throat, echoing throughout the small room as I recall the deep, accented voice of Harry. His sweet smile and soft dimples flood my mind, making the sob turn to a wail. He risked his life for me, and now he's lost it for me, too.

I think of our imagined time in England, holding hands as we walk around cobblestone streets, admiring the greenery and architectural structures. How long would we have been together? Would our lives be as pleasant as we had imagined?

I picture the last time I saw his face, fitted with fear as he urged me that everything will be okay. That was before I got the burns on my palms, the pain in my head, and the high-pitched ring in my ears.

There were a few shots fired before I left the house, and I'm praying nobody I love was at the receiving end of those. I'm not sure what I'd do if my mom was killed now, right after trying so hard to find her. And what about Mike? She doesn't deserve to lose him.

God, I'm a weeping, blubbering mess on the floor, a small puddle forming beneath my eyes and nose in the carpet. There's nothing I can even do about it. I'm completely trapped here with nothing else to do except feel sorry for myself.

  I'm not sure how much time passes before the bedroom door is slammed open, my defenseless body still lying on the floor. A few hands grip me, practically carrying me out of the room since my legs are too weakened to walk properly.

I get thrown onto a dining room chair, being roughly bound to it by zip ties. My will to fight has died, potentially along with everyone I deeply care for.