Broken Dreams ✓

o18 | that night

day 18 ➜ to the person I wish I could be

Dear Somebody,

This is addressed to no one in particular because I don't exactly know who at this moment is everything I am not right now.

But I'd like to give this to somebody who might learn from what happened to me. To this day, I can't shake the feeling that one day someone that I should've met one day will read this.

Like a brother or a sister, but if that day comes I probably will never know and I'll likely be gone or dead because who knows how long I'll last in this place filled with monstrous beings like myself. In this place, you'll never know the murderer sitting next to you. That's bloody prison for you.

Anyways, moving on.

Don't make any sudden moves and choose violence. Choosing violence in the end not only hurts yourself but the recipient(s) too.

When I found out my fiancée was shagging my ex-best friend, holy fucking hell, I wanted to bash his head in. Oh hell, I did! But I didn't.

Me, Harry Styles. I've been broken from a young age.

A broken pitiful thing.

Something like pain is just a normal occurrence to me, but I don't for one second think that I'm normal. There's no way this amount of terrifying pain is normal.

The pain the felt that night was pure madness. As I write this to you now, I'm eyeing the burn scars on my arm from that night.

I remember going back to Christine's that night and the moment I saw those orange flames through the window I had started running.

I don't think I've ever run that much to this day.

I remember busting the doors open, although by that point it didn't need that much pushing. I walked into the burning living room and there was a fallen plank of wood, I'd lifted it and underneath was Christine. My Christine. I shook her shoulders, and shouted her name and got nothing in response. I looked down at her dirty t-shirt, and there was a hole. She was bleeding out. I called out her name again, and again until she started moving in my arms. It felt like forever, but in hindsight, it must've been less than sixty seconds.

"Jamie," she whispered and her eyes rolled towards the kitchen. I briefly that way and saw a knife on the floor, I wasn't sure because of the hot flames and how panicked I was in those moments, but I think there was blood on the blade. But before I could even think of doing that, Christine was my priority.

I dragged her out of the living room and outside the front door. I went back inside and speed-walked towards the kitchen. The knife was gone. I carefully stepped over fallen things and got into the kitchen.

Jamie.

Jamie was leaning against the counter holding the knife to his stomach. "Jamie? What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted reaching for him.

I grabbed ahold of the handle and started slowly pulling it out. However, his hand clamped over mine and pulled it back into himself. "Are you crazy Jamie?" I asked and with blood dripping from his forehead, rolling right down to the side of his chin, he smiled.

He just smiled.

Then he collapsed onto me, pushing my back against the marble counter and his face uncomfortably resting on my chest. "Jaime? Why? Why would you do this?"

He was moving less and less and I knew he was running out of time but a while ago I heard the sirens. Help was on the way. They'll make it. Both of them.

I looked back down at him and his smile was paining him. There were tears coming from his eyes. Was he in so much pain? "Jamie?"

He looked up at me from my chest, his hands holding the knife. His eyes were always this rich chocolate-brown colour, but right then they were glowing with the flames and glistening from his teary eyes.

He let one of his bloody hands go from the knife, and slowly it came up to touch my face. "Life's a funny thing, Haz."

"Jamie."

His eyes let out more tears as he gave a truly pained smile. It was all kinds of suffering and misery, the type where you smile in the face of darkness and a wrinkle of shame.

"Haz, I'm sorry."

His hand dropped from my face, and tears welled up in my eyes. "Jamie?"

He'd gone.

I brought his face up to my neck and cried.

Because after all those insincere apologies Jamie had given me throughout those secondary school years at home in Aldertree, after school.

This was the first "sorry" he meant.

But it was all too late.

All the love, Harry.

// author's note //

unedited