A Shot of Reality [Harry Styles]

XIX. Monster

That three-lettered, one syllable word repeated and blinked within his mind as his pondering became fully enveloped in transparency.

Him.

Three more times.

Him, Him, Him.

Five times more.

Him, Him, Him, Him…

As he prepared his mind to conjure up the last repetitive phrase and the base of his tongue watered with profound astonishment, he glanced ever so slightly at the window to which she was masked behind. The shield of the glass did not conceal her obscene horror, nor the miniscule droplets of tears that traveled from the warmth of her oceanic eyes slowly towards the sides of her face, which now was drenched in anxious sweat as her ribcage heaved in unforgettable fright and inconceivable manic, for she had now discovered the answer to Harry’s mental question.

She mouthed the last of the numbered phrases from behind her sanctuary and towards her paralyzed best friend and his overt place on the couch:

“Him.”

The fact that so many people were watching this on their TV’s in their living rooms didn’t seem to bother Harry or his newfound rage in the slightest of measures. His frozen brain now melted into a boiling pot of lava, as he clenched his fists in the quickest amount of time you could possibly clench your fists. Soon after, he leaped out of the safety of the futon and into the openly sadistic yet mildly fearful smirk of the blonde.

“How’d you get in touch with him?” Harry questioned sharply, and when her pitiless grin only halted to stretch more merciless and inhuman, that’s when the final bone of sanity snapped for Harry.

Just as he was about to inevitably strike the girl, he felt numerous hands and arms being looped and knotted around his towering figure, four of the hands being the boys and the rest from unknown sources.

“You rancid bitch,” he bit, like a rabid dog preparing to tear their opponent apart. Earning unanimous gasps and shrieks from the audience, their ‘I love Harry' posters now suddenly dropped to the ground at the booming cusses being yelled by their idol towards an “innocent, pretty blonde girl.”

“I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you!” was the last sentence he recalled shouting before a strong hand smashed against his busy lips.

As he was forcefully escorted off the stage, he sought out the rattled features of the girl he had just caused a stressed scene for that would unquestionably become a viral sensation within the next hour or so, and the girl he undoubtedly bruised his reputation for during that same scene. Her eyes scanned across his frantic eyes, trying to seek out any light in a boy that became so dark by her own doing.

And unbelievably, he didn’t mind it whatsoever. If being dark was what it took to get answers and keep her safe, then let there be darkness.

Sitting on a stool with his jittery legs vibrating against the base of the seat, Harry waited to have a “talk” with this Amy. Her producer, agent and even the CEO of MTV had been called down to Studio 64 on the Sunset Strip, after the blonde’s “little stunt” on international TV, as he heard the big, hulking CEO scold at her through the paper thin door. To Harry, his misuse of words was borderline offensive, for her stunt was not small in any manner whatsoever.

This stranger, this blonde woman, this, dare he say; bitch, had violated Sydney in the same manner John had, only through sneering words and malicious smirks. As he walked through the plain corridor backstage, he witnessed an inconsolable Sydney, thrashing her limbs against Louis’s chest as he anxiously tried to coax her incredibly strung out form. The two of them had made the slightest amount of eye contact as he passed by the scene, but even in that singular second they could telepath what the other was thinking.