Psychotic (A Harry Styles Fanfiction)

Chapter 32

But that was the only place I could think to start. That, and talking to the other patients that resigned here to help. They could serve as distractions or maybe give us ideas, cover for us, help us obtain whatever we might need. I was not as cynical as Harry on this subject so I would probably do most of the talking. Plus, I already knew a majority of these people. They seemed to like me, for the most part, so hopefully it wouldn't be too hard.

I think one of our main problems, which was being perfectly orchestrated at this very moment, was that we didn't feel the urgency to act. I would see him and he would see me and our worries would evaporate as we sat adjacent to one another in those plastic chairs. We would laugh and talk, but not about escape. And what was tugging at me was the fact that it wouldn't last. When I took a step back, I realized that we needed to get out before something ruined all of it. Sure, there was no death threats or scheduled lobotomies hanging over our heads to infuse the urgent fear, but that could easily change. And it was better to get out before it did.

But until then I was able to smile at the familiar sight of Harry walking into the vast room, which was overcrowded with tables and chairs and the bodies of the insane. His eyes met mine and he smiled. I waited as he walked toward me, pressing a quick peck to my temple before he sat down. "Hi," I grinned.

"Hey," he replied, then kissed me on the lips swiftly. And before I could kiss back he pressed his lips to my forehead, then nose, then cheek, darting kisses all over my face. I giggled and Harry widely grinned, draping an arm on the back of my chair. His hair was in its normal cute bed-head style, his lips as plump and cherry red as ever. But even still something about him looked slightly . . . off. Maybe it was the unusual dark circles under his eyes. "How'd you sleep?" I asked.

"Fine," he told me, although his eyes darted away from mine and his smile faded slightly, as if he weren't telling the truth. "You?" He asked. I didn't want to push him, and it was inevitable that we wouldn't sleep soundly some nights, so I didn't ask but only answered.

"Okay, I guess. Its kind of hard to actually fall asleep, though. I wish you were there next to me."

"Trust me," he replied. "So do I." He was pulling a cigarette from his pocket before he even finished the sentence, and I still caught myself in fascination of the way it looked between his lips. He leaned his head against my shoulder, exhaled into the air in front of us, and closed his eyes. "I fucking hate it here," he sighed. Despite the casualness of his gesture, it still unleashed butterflies throughout my stomach. You would never be able to guess by his hard surface and snarky, sarcastic comments, but he was actually quite a cuddly person.

"Me too," I agreed. Besides the fact that I got to see Harry each day, I could not think of a more terrible place to be. This was a miserable and sad building.

Then Harry quietly asked the question I had been wondering for a long time.

"So what do we do about it?"

"I don't have a clue," I said hopelessly. "We could start by talking to the patients I guess."

"You really think that will help?" He asked not cynically, but as if he were just curious.

I shrugged. "It's better than what we're doing now. We have to at least do something, and this might gain us some allies. They could cover for us or distract guards, I don't know. Some of them are worth talking to."

Harry sat up, removing his head from its comfortable and warm place on my shoulder, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "I guess," he shrugged. "But you're doing all of the talking." His eyes pursued the room, looking through his options.

"Her," he eventually said, pointing to a frail woman sitting by herself. "Jane."

"What about her?" I asked.