A.N. OKAYY SO THIS IS REALLY LATE AND I APOLOGIZING BUT I MADE UP FOR IT. NOT WITH A DOUBLE UPDATE EXACTLY, BUT THIS CHAPTER IS ABOUT TWICE AS LONG AS USUAL, BY FAR MY LONGEST CHAPTER EVER. SO I HOPE THAT MAKES UP FOR A BIT OF THE LOST TIME FROM NOT UPDATING ON TIME :D THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND KINDNESS, ITS LITERALLY ONE OF THE FEW THINGS THAT KEEPS ME WRITING SO THANK YOU ILYSM. PLEASE CONTACT/FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER @/hrrygonkillme AND ON INSTAGRAM @/PSYCHOTICOFFICIAL :DD AND ALSO PLEASE VOTE/COMMENT ON THIS CHAPTER BECAUSE I RLLY LOVE READING THE COMMENTS :)) THANKS AND AGAIN ILY
I could only see black. In the narrow supply closet there were no lights. Just darkness. It hung in the air with an eerie stillness, engulfing me like a thick blanket on a hot summer night. I desperately wanted to rip the covers off and get a breath of fresh air that was not my own, to step out of the stuffy room and search for Harry. But I couldn't, because I had no idea where he might be. It was better to wait for him here and to trust him than to get myself caught and ruin this whole thing.
So I stood and waited. It seemed like hours had passed since I grabbed the gun from the unconscious guard's hip and rushed into this damned room. Since that moment I have been in the very back corner, behind the mops and brooms and trash bags while I waited in the suffocating dark.
I was not sure if Harry was okay, but only that I had heard the guards come and drag him past the door. I was not sure where he was now. I was not sure who had him or how he was going to come back to me. I was not sure how I felt about him killing another man, no matter who, just a little while ago.
But I was sure that I trusted him. If he promised that we would escape, I had hope that he was right. Because I have never met someone with so much passion, so much intelligence, and so much determination as he had.
I still worried, though, and doubt still clawed its way through my optimism. Each small sound made me jump, adding to the jittery nervousness I already felt. My hands were clammy and I felt nauseous. No matter how hard I tried to believe in my hope, I was a wreck. Every small squeak was an impending death, and every step heard was a glance at a punishment-filled consequence that made my heart leap out of my chest. If someone checked this room at any point it was back to my cell after some horrid penalty by Ms. Hellman. And we would be stuck here. Lori and Kelsey would lose their jobs. It would be an utter catastrophe.
Images of Harry under a lashing whip or him shaking under harsh electric currents played through my mind over and over, along with questions like, is he okay? Is he safe? Who is he with? What are they doing to him? How will he make it back here? And what if he doesn't?
I wished so desperately for him to come through that door so we could get the hell out of here and so my racing mind could be put to ease. I waited and waited for what felt like an eternity, but nothing changed. The closet was still filled with nothing but the anxiety of my erratic breath.
But, finally, what was probably hours but felt like days later, I heard the doorknob twist. I held my breath, praying to God that it was Harry.
The door opened. Only for a brief moment, though, just enough for who was hopefully him to step inside.
I was about to say him name, to sigh in relief. He was here. He was safe.
But I caught myself just a second before it happened. Because this person, their frame outlined for only a fraction of a second by the dim red lights, was not Harry. My stomach dropped. All I could make out was that the person had a larger frame, a bigger, more burly one. And there was no sign of disheveled curls atop his head.
I held my breath and cowered back into the wall, clutching the gun I had taken close to my chest. The nameless man stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Oh, no. Oh, shit.
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Psychotic (A Harry Styles Fanfiction)Fanfiction
"I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons." - Christopher Poindexter