Liberate • Harry Styles

thirty three.

Harry.

Harry's fingers curled painfully around the remote, frustratingly gripping it as he looked up at the television. Violet was on the news, answering questions from reporters and keeping a level of extreme composure.

She was fine. She was handling the situation. She wasn't a mess. She wasn't going out and destroying her life because she couldn't get over another human.

Harry roared and threw the remote across the room, walking back and forth across the hide carpet that covered the rustic wooden floor of the cottage. Striding across the room, he rested his hand on the mantle above the fireplace, looking into the burnt wood that hadn't been lit since last year. The soft patter of rain pounded against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft whoosh of wind rustling the trees. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on anything but her. Harry could tell he was different; his body was a leviathan of a human and his mind was competing for his attention. It was almost as if he was in a state of survival; the body had decided that the only course of protection from hurt was to not care at all.

But it didn't stop the thoughts of her, of her face, of her blue eyes. He knew why she kept appearing, he knew his mind hated the thought of her while simultaneously needing her as a life source. His body, ravaged with demons and permeating with anger and hate, needed to disconnect from his mind. His thoughts were beginning to clear, consequently only concentrating on her. He knew it was time once again to throw himself into the dark void only accomplished through the aid of intoxication. Keys were grabbed off the mantle and Harry walked to the door, shoving his feet into his well-worn boots. He was on a mission to feed the demons, lest the mind begins to fight them and he begins to feel again.

He walked down the stone pathway to the car waiting at the end of the driveway. Its engine roared to life as the key was turned, the display momentarily lagging as if to warn the driver against his plans. Determined, he reversed and sped down the winding country roads, ending up where he did most nights - at the pub. Harry pulled into a no-parking zone and shoved his keys into his pocket, not bothering to lock the car. He sat down at the bar and gave a nod to Tom, the bartender, who merely sighed and poured gin into a clear glass. Sliding the cup over to him, Tom hesitantly put his hand out and Harry threw the keys at him. He knew he would be here for a while.

The bar began to fill as the night went on, but Harry barely noticed. His eyes were trained on the spirit in front of him, the clear liquid sloshing in the glass and barely changing level as he quickly downed each glass and acquired full ones. At some point, it became hard to think and difficult to remember why he was at the bar. His vision tried to focus on the glass in front of him, but the room began to spin. Managing to mutter a thank-you, he paid Tom and stumbled out into the dark streets of the countryside. Sitting on the bench, Harry laid his head back and stared at the sky. He kept trying to remember why he was there, why he needed to forget. The only reoccurring image flashing in front of him was a set of blue eyes, which would appear for seconds at a time and disappear.

But they made Harry mad. They made him want to punch a hole in the sidewalk and throw things. But he had a reassurance that the eyes belonged only to a sliver of him that cared for someone he must have known. The eyes reminded him once again of the numbness that consumed his body. He no longer had sadness, no longer was miserable. But somehow, he knew the numbness was worse. His temporary alleviation of pain would only last so long, but momentary bliss at the moment succeeded any want to heal or to feel pain to move on.

And so Harry stayed static, staring at the sky and hoping to continue to fall down the vast, empty darkness of his inebriated brain. He had almost given completely into it, to just allow the abundance of black take him over and guide him into sleep, when a large hand rested on his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open and traced the dirty jeans up to the large face of a man which accompanied his wide, heavy frame. His eyebrows were knotted in the middle and his mouth was set in a permanent scowl.