Broken Strings || Niall Horan [AU]

● PART ONE: 01 | five years since

I’m wearing nothing but my underwear -- I rarely wear pyjamas, as they tend to rub against and irritate my scars -- and the sight before me makes me cringe away from the mirror. I’m not at all what you’d call womanly; I am short and skinny, with no curves to speak of and small barely-there breasts, just hidden beneath the tattiest bra I own. However, that isn’t what makes me frown -- after all, I can’t change the way my body’s built. It’s the scars that really get to me. They run right down the length of each arm, and make appearances on my legs and belly, too. A lot of them are small and fading, but the fresh cuts from last night, on my left forearm, stand out like fiery beacons. I stare at them for far too long, hating them and what they represent, hating myself more than ever. And then, I turn away from my mirror, pick up my duvet, and arrange it neatly across my bed, because that’s what you do after a moment of weakness. You pretend that nothing’s changed, that you’re not breaking inside.

I need to take a shower, but before I can shower, I have to sort out Mum; in order to sort out Mum, I have to cover up my body. I shrug on my threadbare dressing gown, tying a tight knot to keep it in place, and reach under my bed for an old pair of knee-length socks, which I quickly -- albeit painfully -- tug over my feet. Because of all this, the woman who has cared for me since I was negative-nine months old, has no idea that I cut. As far as I’m aware, she’s completely oblivious to the fact that I’m dying inside. But so what? Another day, another lie. It’s no big deal.

I pad across the hallway and gently push on her bedroom door. It opens with a creak. A stale stench of cigarettes and alcohol hangs dully in the air. I move closer, not at all scared or apprehensive because I do this every day. Sure enough, she’s sprawled across the duvet, face-down.

I clear my throat. “Mum,” I say.

As if on cue, she lets out a long, disgruntled groan, and soon a pillow comes flying my way. I swiftly dodge it. I’m not at all surprised by the attack; this -- as in, getting cushions hurled at me as if I’m no more than an intruding stranger -- is standard procedure. “Mum,” I repeat calmly. “You need to get up.”

“Why?” She mumbles, voice muffled because her face is pressed to the mattress.

“You have to go to work,” I tell her. “At the hotel, remember?”

There’s a brief pause. “Oh, yeah.”

I move closer, reaching out to put my arm on hers. Her skin is hot beneath mine, but I don’t pull away. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s been five years,” she murmurs, and I’m taken aback, not because I wasn’t expecting her to remember, but because her words truly, properly confirm it -- it really has been five years since my father passed away. A familiar pain stabs at my chest.

Though it may not seem as if she’s correctly answering my question, she is; she could have plucked any old adjective from her mind, but those four words express how she’s feeling in this moment better than any singular word could. They say terrible. They say I hate what happened. They say everything I never could.

“I know,” I mutter quietly, a lump forming in my throat.

Face still pressed to the mattress, she says, “Five years ago today, we were eating bacon sandwiches and having a good time. Your dad spelled ‘I Love You’ out in ketchup on our plates, stupid soppy sod. Do you remember? And then he left.”

I nod wordlessly. How could I possibly forget? “Yes,” I gulp. It’s as if all oxygen has been sucked from the room. “I remember,” I finish breathlessly.

“He left and never came back,” Mum says, as if this is a brand new discovery.

“I know.”