Slavery

Chapter 8

Hello, friend. 

Today was rather nice. I woke up, I suppose that is a start to my next series of events. But I found myself in an image that I viewed, depicted my own home. It captivated the scent of my aunt's home made sugar cookies, book cases piled against the wall, white blotches of paint drifting to a ridged edge towards the lateral of each side. 

One thing resembled a particular difference. The absence of Auntie and Uncle were salient through out this time. I had no idea were their presence had maintain. But the fact that they had left me to myself, with out a note, or anything of the sort, was odd. 

I sauntered towards the kitchen. Grey boxers placed to my hips. Along with a "Centennial High" ?jumper that I had no remembrance of accumulating in. 

I solved the puzzle. 

Within a manner of three minutes I gathered all the pieces and placed them on the table. 

I knew it all when I walked into a kitchen with Styles placed in  his "Kiss the chef", apron. Slaving over a stove with frosting across his pants. 

I took the sleeves of my sweater into grasp of my nimble palms and rubbed at my eyes. "Harry?" I interrogated, a grim smirk etched among his lips as I entered, enduring carefully sedate strides towards him. 

My caution took for granted as he linked his arms around my center. 

"What happened to the room- and the other guys." I mumbled. Planting my head into his chest. 

"I'm not positive, dear. Possibly it was a bad dream." He whispered, shoving his lips into my ear and taking his finger tips up my spine. 

Strange. It seemed so real. Though I trusted Harry's dictation more than one I could ever titter. Harry nodded. Hands at hips, head angled fifty degrees to the right, to fit into the nape of my neck. 

I had yet another question. 

"Where's auntie?" to which, he lacked reply. 

Worry filling my own to the brim, placing myself back, attempting to tremble, and fixate myself from his hold. 

My strength being pathetically under scored towards his own. I failed.