Madness ➮ Harry Styles AU

B7

My mother's eyes were wide, focused on me, eyebrows pinched together and raised, a very obvious look of worry in her irises diluted into the prominent disappointment.

Matthew gave my mum a quick peck on the lips before positioning himself into a small chair nearby; the cotton cushions a light green color, alike the pigmentation of her bed sheets.

The both of them spoke within the standard conversation topics between a married couple. Their words so dull after a while, that they dissolved into a constant buzz, bleaching the sound to be nothing but white noise drowned within the volume of the television.

We were all watching-you guessed it-Sherlock, straight off the season one tape I bought her. A small styrofoam bowl overflowing with overcooked popcorn; the kernels burnt in the center, was passed and distributed amongst the three of us throughout the duration of the visitation.

After finishing approximately one and a half episodes, my mum turned off the television. Considering that nobody was watching it anyways, but rather having their own conversations with her. Not between the three of us, but rather, her and Matthew, and her and myself, the speaking very obviously segregated.

Time passed deliriously in that moment. Distorted, strange, and deranged within the way that it moved quickly then slowly and interchanged miraculously between the opposites.

Later on, in the midst of re-tying my generic sneakers and casually bidding farewell to my mother, Matthew announced that he too was to be leaving.

Which was odd, because it seemed almost like tradition, an unsigned contract, that I arrived earlier and he left later.

Hurriedly, I exited the room, wishing to leave before he did, just to simply avoid some awkward encounters.

One by one, footstep by footstep, inching closer to the doorway with every breath that I exhaled within those sterile corridors. The walls: white. The orderly tiling: white. And the people seemed to be just as dull.

Upon reaching the entrance, the doors slid fluidly open to let me pass, programmed to do so, and nothing other than a slave to man.

The night was cold that day, scarcely illuminated by flecks of light protruding against the stark darkness.

I walked further, into the abstractly empty parking lot, and then stopped.

I stopped to watch and wait while pacing in a linear line right in the midst of the asphalt lot. The tapping of my shoes against the pavement was my only companion.

Revealed from exiting the medical hospital, was Matthew, nonchalantly strolling down in my direction.

Squinting, he muttered a low, "Harry?"

"Erm.. hello Matthew." I responded in recognition, my voice shy and awkward even though I had been meaning to speak with him.

"Hey... what's up?" He responded. The question not casual, but curious as he stepped towards me.

"I don't know, I just.." I begun the scratch the back of my neck in nervousness. "I've been wanting to talk to you, and I just didn't want to talk with my mum in the room."

Sensing the vague appearance of seriousness within my tone, he straightened his posture. "Um, okay."

"Do you know anybody named Chris?" I blurted out, unaware of what I was saying until it had been said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Like the name, Chris. Do you know anybody named Chris?" I restated the question, unsure as to how to difference in wording would help at all.