The Young And The Beautiful

Prologue

The Past

 

A small box was lobbed into the back of Harry Styles’ head as he turned to leave the studio. He flinched slightly and his arms immediately flew to protect his head and face, a basic human instinct. He gave a slight sniff, his mind not really too sure who he was most angry with at that moment.

He glanced towards the man that had been stood behind the poised camera, who seemed to be looking at him with a rather reprimanding look, a look Harry recognised he had received a few times before from a teacher.

“Cry me a river, Curls.” He grunted, before his attention left Harry’s and the curly haired boy in question had a feeling that the last ten minutes of his life were now lost to the man behind the camera, as if Harry Styles was but three seconds of a goldfish’s memory.

The seventeen year old glanced down at the box thrown at him, a white and red box with a warning on top of it, a warning so generic it went unheard. He scooped them up, glancing over the well known Marlboro design, before he clutched them into his large hands. He was out of the room before another second could past. As he left he didn’t realise that a lot of mental damage had followed him out, almost gripping onto his broad shoulders as he stormed through the building, a once charming face; stone.

Back in that studio stood the photographer and his equipment, the large camera that captured the most perfect angles of the most imperfect people. Endless cast away photographs, quick polaroids scattering tables that were no use to anybody. Newer technology, cameras, lighting, software brought in to replace old ones that wouldn’t get a second thought by anyone. A large box in the corner stuffed with what seemed like props, once used and forgotten like the other victims in the room. There was a small table next to the large desk which held an Apple MacBook proudly. Two coffees were stood upon the tray; the only warmth in the room.

A perfect white wall was the first thing the eyes saw as they walked into the room. A white wall, where the some of the most beautiful people had stood against, would hug itself around them, bringing them into them into the camera’s frame and yet would receive no recognition of it’s own. The wall also carried a heavy burden, the crushed spirits of many hopefuls that weren’t flat or pretty; not good enough. The wall had watched as young person after young person had stood by it, their bodies slowly deflating like a balloon before they’d leave.

The latest name in the scrapbook of lost souls was Harry Styles, not the first and never to be the last.

A boy’s dreams and hopes were left in pieces in that room, acknowledged by no one.

In had walked a soul full of life and hope, on the verge of what they thought would be the adventure of their lifetime. This brightness slipped from the boy, leaving a cold and hardened form to walk out of the room in tatters.

A monster had been created that morning, a beautiful monster.