Flicker (H.S)

13.

13.

“When was the last time you felt these compulsions?”

“An hour ago.”

[Pause].

“Who did you have the impulse to kill?”

“That girl.”

“What girl, Mr. Malik?”

“The blonde one. The hot one? Yeah. She has secrets, that one. Watch her- she’s going to turn on all of you. She’s done it before.”

-Police Recording of Zayn Malik [recorded August 9, 2016]

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h a r r y

Mel woke her brother at two o’clock in the morning.

Well, technically, she just aroused him from the half sleep state he found himself in most nights recently. He dreams; he dreams of monsters and drugs and a girl with skinny legs and sad eyes and ratty American University jumpers hanging off her bony shoulders.

Mel woke her brother at two o’clock in the morning from his half sleep state he found himself in most nights recently. And he was glad- because the girl with sad eyes and skinny legs and ratty American University jumpers hanging off of her bony shoulders was tattooing herself on the inside of his eyelids.

He wanted her removed.

“You need to go outside.” His pretty-gorgeous sister sniffed, trying to hide the glistening tears falling from her piercing green eyes. “It’s dad- dad’s hurt.”

And Harry didn’t want to get up.

Because his dad was a prick who can’t handle three troubled kids who have all smelled like abuse at one time or another and just gave up as soon as their mum left.

But Mel woke her brother at two o’clock in the morning from his half sleep state he found himself in most nights recently, so he shakes out his hair and slides some pants on before taking his pretty-gorgeous sister’s hand and letting her lead him outside.

Oakwood’s night air was cold and empty. But then again, so was Harry’s heart. So he felt comfortable.

Mel was crying next to him, and he tried to comfort her by squeezing her hand and kissing her temple but that just made her cry harder.

Because Harry smelled like abuse. But then again, all the Styles’ kids have smelled like abuse at one time or another. And abuse kind of smelled like alcohol and weed. She would know.

“He’s right there.” She pointed towards a large oak tree by Mrs. Clemens's garden, trying to mask the water in her eyes. “He is just sitting there. Now, right now Harry. He’s slumped up against the tree- go get him, Harry. Please, Hazzy?” The old nickname sends a pain through his heart but he doesn’t start walking towards the oak so Mel tugs on his arm. “Harry, come on. He needs help, right now. Just help me get him home and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I want to go back to sleep now, Mel.” He answers, his voice empty. He looks at the slumped figure of his father in the distance, leaning up against the oak, just as Mel said, and feels nothing but relief.

“Not yet.” She pleads. Harry could see the knot of tears building in her throat. “Harry, come on. Right now. Go and help him stand, and I’ll help you too. Yeah?” She tugs on his arm a bit harder but he doesn’t budge. “Stop playing games!”

He wishes he was playing games.

But Mel woke her brother at two o’clock in the morning from the half-asleep state he finds himself in recently.