Sailing Away

Chapter 1

The flip of the last page and the gentle push of the hardback book closing for the final time echoes in the slowly darkening room. The only other light in the room glows warmly as the night sky builds in the background through the white picture window. Instead of placing it on the small circular table by the white loveseat that he lays on, he gets up from his comfortable position and walks over to the growing wall of books he's been collecting for several years now. He places the book among the other spines, letting it stand out for a moment before losing it among the others he's read before this one.

My Policeman stands out in its red lettering against the ocean background of its cover. Backing up to look at it for a few more seconds, he visualizes himself in the story–which makes him feel more alone in the room than he already is. He pulls himself out of the thought and turns his attention to the stopped black vinyl on the turntable–ready to go back home behind the wooden doors of the cabinet that it lays on top of. It's ready to be surrounded by others like it and to feel the safety of the organization and the sameness amongst the other vinyl. The slight static sound from the turntable lingers in the air as he removes the needle and returns it to its place, playing with the other sounds in the room and amplifying itself to feel like he's carrying this static within himself because there is no one else in the house with him. Not even the fan spinning overhead drowns it out.

With the vinyl back in place, the turntable and speakers turned off, he patters to the lamp and turns the small knob between his fingers and shuts the light off–entering a new state of darkness. He stays in place for a second–just enough to gather himself off the metaphorical floor and make his feet move across the room to the halls that lead him to his empty bedroom. He's not dreading going in there, he's actually looking forward to a nice night of sleep, but he thinks about the coldness of the silk sheets that lay across his bare skin and thinks otherwise. He could make a drink to warm himself up, but he hates the idea of depending on a substance to feel something when there is no one there to help him feel it actually.

But he does it anyway.

The small bar that stays in the corner of the same room he's still in calls out to him with the intoxicating color of a golden brown that it usually has in any light source, but right now it blends it with everything else in the room. So the burn that it could provide if he took a straight shot of everything it offers calls out to him instead.

'It's just a brief distraction' he thinks as he takes a small crystal glass from nearby and pours himself a drink with nothing other than tiredness and hunger to sleep warm for a night. He gulps it down quick enough to consume a couple of more, slamming the glass back down and abandoning the room to walk down the hall to his room afterward. The thing is that he can still hear each pop and crack of his existence as he walks to his room. For some reason tonight it's getting to him more than usual. Luckily it doesn't have to last long if he could only make it to his room with a bit more pep.

Facing the light he left on earlier in his room, he walks in and shuts the door behind himself–more as a precaution these days–and prepares for a night's sleep and a hopefully uneventful dreamscape. Already feeling the slight effects of the alcohol, he throws almost every piece of clothing off his body, abandoning them at every whim to get away faster.

The air is cool around every muscle on his body–sending goosebumps and pricks of reality throughout. He feels and traces them on the details of his black tattoos that line his body. It feels a bit intoxicating, but he lets himself feel and ache with every intention it has. The thin lines that curve his arms, chest, and stomach feel more real and solid than usual–something seems off putting about them. He goes to the nearest mirror in his white marble bathroom and looks at himself. Standing there with nothing on but a slightly tight pair of black boxer briefs, he looks at himself and sees what everyone in the world sees.

He sees Harry Styles.

It's the person he is and has become–it makes no sense when you look at it like that, but somehow it makes sense to him. He knows who he is intellectually, emotionally and he's getting better at the physical part, but somehow he still feels like a stranger in his own body sometimes.

Maybe those drinks were a bad idea.

Can't take it back now.

A quick flick of the light switch in his bathroom, he's again in a low glow coming from the lamp he left on. He sits on his bed and lays his back down against the mattress, staring up at the smooth ceiling and feeling the silk sheets that peek out from under his white comforter tickle his body shamelessly. It sends a small reminder of the coldness that lays between them and that he's the only source of warmth anywhere in the house that isn't artificial.

It's not painful.

It's just lonely.

He hates it. These dwindling thoughts and spirals of nothingness. Why does his brain keep reminding him? He knows already. He was fine with it before. What's changed now? He can stay up and contemplate what it all means for the hundredth night, but he knows those nights won't get him anywhere but be left with wasted time and misunderstandings. He feels like he deserves a break from that.

He takes his underwear off and slips into bed. He reaches out and twists the knob to turn the lamp off. He's entered that darkness again. He's somewhat warm from the alcohol and the comforter, but the coldness from everything else against every curve and inch of his exposed skin burns with more intensity than with anything else going on.

He flips onto his side and grabs the neighboring pillow–cradling it in his arms to be a substitute for another being. It works for a few moments. He can even allow himself to feel whatever rumbles in his belly and to let it exist as it spreads throughout–it's warm and somewhat inviting. His body is reacting naturally and it feels better to be human and to not be ashamed of whatever is happening, but it brings up the ghosts that linger within the shadows of his house. Every memory of another person and the warm touch on his skin that they inflicted and how heated and filled he felt on those days. How alive he was.

Oh, how he misses the feelings, but not the people all that much.

He places his attention back onto the pillow and holds it tighter against himself–he could maybe fool himself, but he won't. He just holds on tighter and tighter until he releases himself into his dream world where the grip around the pillow is loose and soft, and his breathing is easy and steady.