bitter || zarry stylik

five

Zayn frowns, and scribbles that down on his crowded notepaper. "What do you mean? All parents love their children. What makes you think your mother and father no longer love you? Do they tell you they don't love you?"

"They don't need to. It's clear they're disappointed in me."

"Why would they be disappointed in you, Harry? You've done nothing wrong, as far as I can tell."

"Well, in their eyes, I asked to be this way. It's my fault I'm all fucked up, and I like being this way."

Zayn scoffs. "You and I both know that's not true. I'm sure your parents know as well. No one asks to suffer."

Harry shrugs. "I dunno. Some people ask to suffer, if they think they really deserve it. I don't think anyone deserves to suffer, but that doesn't change the fact that some people do."

Zayn nods, and is about to speak again when Harry cuts him off. "Anyways, the reason I know my parents don't love me anymore is because they can hardly look at me, and they do whatever they can to get away from me. Like, I invited my mum to brunch a few weeks ago, and she said she couldn't because she had more pressing matters to attend to. Those are her words, not mine. And my sister Gemma never visits me at my flat anymore because the last time she did, I practically forced hand sanitiser on her and freaked her right out. She believes in "conserving water" and the whole "if it's yellow, keep it mellow, if it's brown flush it down" thing. Which I find completely repulsive. Why ever would you want a toilet bowl full of piss? Like, I-"

Zayn glances down at his watch, and frowns. "I'm sorry, Harry, but our time is up. I'll see you next week, yeah? Same time work for you?"

Harry nods, and his cheeks redden as he stands up and brushes off his trousers. "Um, yeah. Do you mind if we meet outside of here next time? Like, I know a café that's relatively quiet, and the owner is lovely and is fine with me cleaning up a bit."

Zayn smiles at the thought of that, and nods. "That would be divine. Although I can't assure that we'll have the same level of privacy." Harry shrugs, and Zayn continues. "Here, why don't I give you my mobile number so you can call or text me with any issues or anything."

Harry blushes again at that, and pulls up a new contact for Zayn. Zayn types in his number, and hands Harry his mobile back. "Feel free to call or text me anytime. Day or night or anything in between. I'm usually awake."

Does he ever sleep?, Harry thinks to himself. Whatever. Harry smiles and nods, and shakes Zayn's hand firmly. "See you next week, Zayn."

Zayn says his goodbyes, and as soon as he's out of sight, Harry coats his hands generously with Purell. He glances around the waiting room, frowning when he realises Carol is nowhere in sight.

She's probably at the liquor store, fuelling her addiction, Harry thinks bitterly. He sends her a quick text reminding her that he's ready to go, and she doesn't reply.

After six minutes and seven seconds of Harry waiting impatiently, Carol finally shows up. She steps inside the door and smooths her frizzy wind-swept hair, taking a sip from a water bottle that Harry is almost sure isn't filled with water. "Harry. Are you ready? Dusty needs to be fed in twenty minutes."

Harry rolls his eyes, and follows Carol out to her smelly coup de ville. He doesn't understand why she's so obsessed with feeding Dusty, Harry's cat. She makes sure Harry feeds him at the exact time every day, and pays more attention to poor Dusty than Harry, who she's hired to watch.

Harry cringes as she turns on the crackling stereo, playing a dated song from the early twentieth century. Carol has terrible taste in music. It's either swing music or Tech N9ne. There's no in between.

Suddenly, Harry's thoughts are drifting to Zayn, and Harry wonders what kind of music he likes. He probably has exquisite taste.