Madness ➮ Harry Styles AU

B6

Christopher

I watched with tiresome eyes as the fragmented pieces of glass were swept carefully into a chrome dust pan. Many of the shattered crystals stained and tainted with burgundy flecks of blood. Which made me wonder, at which rate last night had I become so drunk, that the pain of broken glass beneath my feet ceased to hurt me?

It was nothing but a distant memory, even as it only was a day ago. Even so, due to my level of intoxication, I could only remember vague bits of it. Similar to the shards of glass I continued to clean, come to think of it.

While sighing exasperatedly, I chucked the trash into the bin. Then, I mindlessly trudged throughout the house, with no particular place to go, dragging my fingertips on any random surface I happened to pass by.

However, by the third or seventh or second time I wandered around our bedroom, I noticed an old leather bound book carelessly strewn upon the ivory night stand.

Hesitantly, my fingers lapped around the cool material, my palm resting upon the face of it. I snatched a black fountain pen that lied near where the book had previously been and popped the cap off.

November 25, 2013

I wrote messily, carelessly, and quickly, staining the latest empty page.

Dear Diary,

I feel empty.

My left hand twitched, hoisting the pen within my grip. Holding it just above the lined paper, willed to write, but not able to do so.

And I looked upon the sentence permanently inked upon the page wondering why, out of all the things I could have written, I chose to write that. And what that meant. And why I even cared at all.

You see, I wanted to write more, but my brain seemingly refused to work in partnership with my hand. It kept telling me that what I was doing was pointless, and that I had never truly felt so empty as I did in this moment.

So empty in fact, to the point of not even having any words to write anymore.

After deciding upon the fact that I couldn't write any further, I closed the book then reopened it to the very first page.

November 25, 2008

Dear Diary,

I don't know why I own one of these things, let alone actually spend the time to write in it. All I seem to know is that I have far too many things to say without any words to put them into.

I guess you could say that's why I'm writing in here. A sad, miserable excuse to get my thoughts out and printed upon paper.

Another reason being that, okay, there's this girl that I saw working at the bookstore down the street. I don't even like books, so it's strange that I happened to look though the window at that brief moment just to see how beautifully the sun reflected off of her coffee-kissed hair, or that heavenly slope of her nose. I'd like to think that that wasn't just a coincidence, but that's something I'd rather find out myself.

Anyways, this is stupid. I don't even know her name. And I sure as hell shouldn't be writing about how nicely her hair reflected off the light of the sun (even though it I still am), or the curvature of her nose.(which, by the way, was totally beautiful)

Come to think of it, I guess she's the only reason I begun to write in the first place, even if it's sad and miserable after all.

The funny thing is that I remembered nothing of what color shirt I wore yesterday or am currently wearing now. But, the memory of that day is still impeccably fresh.