Save you tonight (A Niall Horan fan fiction love story)

Underwater (Chapter five)

"Why have you engraved Doug there?" Jay asks, pointing at my messy engraving. 

"Hes called Doug!" I grin. 

"What your guitar?" he asks confused. 

"Yes."  

Jay starts laughing, I elbow him. Jay starts to stroke the guitar and coos at it. 

"Hey Dougie!" Jay grins smirking at me. 

I roll my eyes, then Mr. Skye swings open the door. He glances at me clutching my guitar, he raises his eyebrows. 

"Any reason you got a guitar with you Faith?" Mr. Skye asks confused running his fingers through his thin white hair. I nod. He squints his eyes then lets the class in, I stand at the front of the class, Mr. Skye sits down at his piano looking at me, then points at my chair demanding me to sit down, I take a big breath in. I can't believe I'm doing this, I feel sicker than ever.

I pull out a stool by the piano and seat myself positioning Doug on lap, I start strumming my guitar softly, I feel at ease. I don't even recognise everyone staring at me curiously. I tap my foot gently in time with the music, then the same as I did down at the beach I open my mouth letting the words roll off my tounge.

White lips, pale face

Breathing in snowflakes

Burnt lungs, sour taste

Light's gone, day's end

Struggling to pay rent

Long nights, strange men

And they say

She's in the Class A Team

Stuck in her daydream

Been this way since 18

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking, wasting

Crumbling like pastries

And they scream

The worst things in life come free to us

Cause we're just under the upperhand

And go mad for a couple grams

And she don't wanna go outside tonight

And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland

Or sells love to another man

It's too cold outside

For angels to fly

Angels to fly

Ripped gloves, raincoat

Tried to swim and stay afloat

Dry house, wet clothes

Loose change, bank notes

Weary-eyed, dry throat

Call girl, no phone

And they say

She's in the Class A Team

Stuck in her daydream

Been this way since 18

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking, wasting

Crumbling like pastries

And they scream

The worst things in life come free to us

Cause we're just under the upperhand