nothing // larry stylinson au

Chapter One

I wrote most of this story with a girl named Kimmy on another website and she unfortunately quit because she became incredibly busy. I finished it myself, however, and decided to put the final product on here. I hope you enjoy. (:

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There's a soft squeak of the door and light peers into the room. A food bowl is scratched across the concrete and trips down the stairs to end with a messy clash on the floor where his eye level meets. He sits up from the mattress and sighs exasperatedly. Harry concludes it must be morning.

He blinks up to the door, now closed and locked with the twelve notches and switches to prevent escape. He knows this. There's ham and cheese scattered across the flight of stairs and Harry can see the pink and yellow pastels under the dim light. It brightens up the room, somewhat. There's probably nothing left in that food bowl of his. He checks. He's correct.

So food from the floor it is, not like it's any different from any day. He's glad he's fed three times a day and his water bottle is filled up four. He feels as if there's nothing else to it but eating, sitting, drinking, maybe a bit of sleep, maybe a few scratches up the wall to indent his thoughts. One line says it all. Life really doesn't get better than this.

Still, there's nothing but a sense of hope that maybe he'll one day be able to see light. Maybe he'll ask his uncle on his 18th birthday. Maybe he'll be able to finally see what he's been missing for the past nine years. He vaguely remembers what the outside world looks like. He tries not to remember. He's afraid of it. He's scared to be free from here. He's afraid of change.

As per usual, he sits and eats his food without a complaint. It really does not get any better than this.

Being stuck in his uncle's basement for nine years didn't seem like that big of a deal to Harry. Presumably because he can hardly remember life outside of it. He thinks he's treated nicely. He's used to being alone, being abused. He knows when his uncle is coming to him with a belt ready to whip him until his bruises feel numb. He's used to the dark. He thinks things could be worse, they really could. Maybe he could have a set meal plan instead of a change every day. Ham and cheese is like a delicacy to him. He doesn't think he's had this in months.

He looks up and squints at the usual seep of light at the dirty window. He has tried to escape from there before. He didn't succeed. The window's glued shut. It keeps the room lit up, despite how horribly dusty it is. Harry could write for help. Harry could stay there and look out the window in desperate hope someone will see his eyes and will let him out. But he doesn't. He's trained to stay here. He likes it here, he thinks. He doesn't want to move. He hates change.

His stomach is still growling by the end of his meal, so he swallows his saliva to reduce his famish. He stretches out and squeaks a little, curling up on his frame-less bed and rolling onto his back. He stares at the ceiling. Quite dim, like his opportunities and his lifestyle. Harry doesn't mind, however. He likes this. He keeps reminding himself that there's nothing better than this.

Look at those children who go to school. They're obviously stressed out and are being attacked by angry mean people, and if you weren't, you were still back stabbed by people you'd called friends. Harry has no friends. That's good. No one to back stab you. No school means no stressing out. Learning is obviously the worst thing to do. Harry's glad he doesn't have school.

Look at those idiots who have a job. Ha, they're overworked and they don't get paid enough. Harry doesn't have to work. He can lounge around and get fed every day for free. He might not have a shower or a proper sanitary toilet, but he's fine. He's not dead. At least he's got a shelter. Some people have to sleep in the rain, or be batted by winds. Innisfail isn't a safe place to live if you're homeless. Harry's glad he doesn't have to face any of this.