Bruise of Love | L.S ✔

Unfinished Sympathy

If his love were to be scaled by pain, he'd be afraid but happy to hold on to the limp body of his lover.

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Really hurt me baby, really hurt me baby.

I struggle to open my eyes, anxious about the melody that's been ringing my ears. My elbows drag against the itchy carpet, my back in desperate need of a massage groans and my temples throb. There's eerie silence and the smell of overripe guavas stinking up the flat.

I stand up, legs wobbling and back cracking. Everything is blurry. I'm still in last night's clothes, the sweaty shirt clings to me.

It's 8:47 as per my phone. I plug it into the charger and leave it there, picking up the parka and the denim jacket. I take a whiff of it, the odour of stale cigarettes and dried liquor assaults my nose.

Zayn.

Zayn has been here. It warms my heart a little.

I wrinkle my face but slide the glasses up my nose. My head pounds a little less, the vision becomes clearer.

There are shards of stained ceramic on the counter. The box of tea opened. Dirty dishes are still in the sink. The brown guavas are lying pathetically on top of the fridge. An overwhelming sense of dread crashes over me.

I sweep the broken shards and dump them, agile and careful. My palms dampen around the broom.

"You're so bad, Princess. You need to be punished."

I let go of the broom with a shriek. The bruises, the pain, the glossy memories try to rise. The knock on the door forces my mind to divert. Still shaking with the ghost of the memories, I peer from the peephole.

It's Niall.

"Tommo open up! I come bearing breakfast." Niall Horan is a ball of laughter, never diminishing appetite and paleness.

I begrudgingly open the door, fully intending to kick him out after breakfast. Solitude is tempting, addicting and self destructing.

Niall moves around the flat like it's his own. He sticks a kettle on the stove and loads the dishwasher. Removes a couple of plates and carefully places the breakfast.

I sit dumbly, feeling very much like a guest, an outsider.

"Your flat is fuckin' filthy," he says, a loud laugh accompanying it.

There's no heat, no malice. Just friendly teasing. I let my lips curve, a sharp stinging making me gasp.

"Your lips are bleeding you tit, a little chapstick wouldn't kill ya." Niall chastises me.

I take the paper towel he offers and dab at the corner of my lips. The paper comes back soaked with red.

I sigh, busted lips weren't something new to me. Niall gives me a weird look and takes the kettle off the stove.

I reach up into the shelves to get cups. Niall silently takes it, his eyes still apprehensive of me.

His eyes follow me, languid but so alert. I throw away the guavas in the bin, breathing in the fresher air.

"What?" I finally break, Niall's chewing on his waffles, eyes still trained on me.

Paranoia threatens to rear it's maddening head at me.

He washes down his waffles with a huge gulp of tea. I distract myself with pouring milk and adding sugar to my own.

Niall cautiously says,"Harry's in jail."