Dark Thorns | Harry Styles AU

Chapter Fifteen

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Chapter Fifteen

It was news to me to hear that every department at Dark Thorn Academy received from the Board of Administrations a number of private studios that the head of each department was in charge of dishing out to students that were either 1) possessing a genuine gift in their field and were expected to go far in life, or 2) thought of to have needed their own space while achieving what they were in school to do.

At first thought, I immediately categorized Jigsaw in the latter option. With further observation on his personality and overall persona, he fit into both talented and reclusive. Cloistered wasn't even the right definition for him, but, instead, I believed he had been put out into the world a little too much; that was what caused him to pull away and become avoidant to intimacy and social interaction.

"And you're absolutely positive this is the best  idea?" I asked wearily, glancing down at the scrap of paper in my hand which inscribed the number to Jigsaw's private studio. Focusing back on my teacher, her eyes were alight and unconcerned.

She nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Of course!" she assured, doubt not playing any part in her mind's eye. "If anything," she added, "Harry'll just send you on your way. I know him, and I know his thoughts," Mrs. Jenson spoke. "Once everything blows over, he will be grateful that you came and checked up on him. A ball of fire that kid can be," she chuckled.

Jigsaw had never been the type to neither "be grateful" nor "need checking up on" to me. What scared me far worse was how descriptive and on-point her symbolized comparison was. "Ball of fire" as in biting and fierce was spot on.

Eyes bugged in suspicion, I reiterated, "'Once everything blows over?' What's that  supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," she laughed breathily, shooing me out of her classroom with her hands. I glared over my shoulder at the woman who seemed to know more about this upcoming encounter than me, finding it odd that she never made eye contact for supposedly acting so confident. "You'll be fineee ," she rapidly coaxed. "Now, go!"

The door was shut behind me, barely a centimeter from my heels as I released an afflicted sigh. If there was one thing I was certain of, it was that Jigsaw would not be happy about my surprise visit. Mrs. Jenson knew that he would flip out if she were to check in on him, so she sent me to do the dirty work instead.

And dirty work I did.

It took me twenty minutes to fish out the swirling feeling of nervousness in my stomach and find Jigsaw's private studio. On my way there, I stopped at a vending machine to buy myself lemonade and him a bottle of grape juice. (I faintly remembered him drinking one when I confronted him at the Treehouse Italian Grill.)

Cracking my can open, I sipped on it unsurely as I approached his door. Noise could be heard from inside, blaring like bass in an upbeat but depressing song. Raising my hand to knock, I paused. There was less likely of a chance that Jigsaw would stop what he was doing to come answer the door, but that he would ignore any hindrances and continue on with his confinement. As lucky as I was to be blessed with an easy way out – and I was pretty close to doing so – that wouldn't fix the problem at hand, only postpone the inevitable. The only foreseeable way I could know for certain that I would be able to speak with Jigsaw was if I walked in without his consent and confronted him.

A heavy breath rattled in my stomach before I determined to not dwell on the pros, but be optimistic and pretend that our encounter wouldn't turn out horrendous. So, as confident as possible, I fixed myself one last time and grasped the doorknob. Breathing in an elongated dose of air, I twisted my wrist and stepped forward, closing the door quietly behind me all in one fluid motion.