Ecstasy, Misery

19 | popcorn and a movie

hide from the red light beam

now do you believe in the unseen

insane in the brain - cypress hill (1993)

A/N: our babies are so drunk rn, please be patient with them <3

June 6th, 1998

I stumble back until I hit the wall at the sight of Layla's head on our kitchen floor.

Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit.

My legs are shaking, threatening to give out and I stand there paralyzed, pins and needles washing heavily through my trembling hands, barely able to keep a hold on my gun, let alone keep it ready for a possible intruder.

My drunken brain can't cope with the situation or come up with a quick solution, so I just stand there and focus on my breathing, trying to keep it quiet so I can pick up any odd noises that might be coming from inside the house.

I think I locked the front door. Fuck, did I? I can't remember.

I want to run into the kitchen and double check, but I'm too scared to get close to the head.

I swallow and close my eyes; that's not Layla anymore; it's a head; a piece of evidence that should probably be handed over to the police immediately, right?

Okay, we need to figure this out. Whoever is responsible for doing this clearly isn't inside the house; if they could get inside the house, they wouldn't have thrown her head—fuck, the head, through the window. I keep forcing myself to disassociate from the fact that it's Layla and try to focus on fixing this from an objective standpoint.

I hurry up the stairs, relying heavily on the railing for guidance on the way up and tripping over my feet a couple times because I'm trying to go too fast.

I need to get Harry.

I dart down the hall and push myself through my bedroom door, out of breath from struggling so much to stay calm.

"Head in kitchen." My mouth talks without my brain even telling it to and I want to face palm, because what I just said makes absolutely no sense.

The situation might've sobered up my mind a bit, but the whole 'sober' thing is getting lost in translation when it comes to my speech.

Harry's currently white knuckling the wooden bars of my headboard on either side of him and it seems that he took my order to not touch himself very seriously. His dick is still out, band tee pushed up to his torso and a very confused expression on his face.

"The fuck? I don't wanna go to the kitchen. C'mere." He orders, sounding annoyed and the familiar look of frustration etched into the lines of his face.

Fuck, no. I don't mean 'head to the kitchen'; I'm literally saying there's a head in the kitchen.

"No, no, no," I slur out, my words mixing together, "There's a head in the kitchen."

He stares at me for a couple seconds, lips parted and eyes furrowed in dazed confusion; his 'brain to speech' functioning seems to be struggling just as much as mine is at the minute.