This is what I image Bree looking like, isn't she drop dead gorgeous?! But vision her to your liking.
Bree Tyler
Dear Journal,
July 15, 2010
I've been writing in this journal for quite a bit now; everyday since I've found it. I'm currently laying next to Harry in his warm bed, it's much better than the floor. I should be scared, you know..laying next to someone who kidnapped me just to hold me for ransom; but I feel the opposite. He saved me at the club, and I just want to thank him even more, even though it's the bare minimum. Can't believe how horny we both were; maybe even still are, it's fucking hilarious. I can hear his heavy breaths that break the silence of the room. The balcony sliding door was still opened, the cold air breezing in, but I didn't want to close it; the wind and musk was peaceful. If their is anything I have learned from tonight it's that Harry isn't a bad person, perhaps; misunderstood. I've always thought he was evil, that was before he opened up and saved my innocence. I was almost raped tonight, but Harry busted in and saved my ass thank god. I couldn't thank him enough. It's hard to write when there is someone next to you, writing is something I usually do alone, but next to someone is quite a different experience. Harry says he's a bad person, but I think underneath all the tattoos, piercings, addictions, and having sex with different woman every night, he's reasonable, theirs good in his heart. I tried cocaine tonight, the feeling was euphoric as it traveled through my senses, my mother would kill me, but it's a good thing she's not here, isn't it? If there's anything that's bothering me the most about being abducted, it's that I'm okay with it, I've learned to except it. It isn't as bad as the movies make it out to be, or maybe I just got lucky. Yes, death threats that Harry constantly gives me is freakish, but he never actually does them, I have no fear whatsoever, maybe a little bit actually. The way he plays with that switch blade is kind of bone chilling, and the way he describes how he would torture you; that's freakish. Harry, I don't know why you want me to stay and sleep next to you, I really don't. You don't want me to comfort you; but you want me next to you. You don't talk much about problems; you're non vocal on that topic most of the time. But maybe that's the good thing, silence is better than talking. Some would say uncomfortable silence is so over rated, but I beg to differ. The cocaine bag is still setting on the railing, I probably should go move it, but my legs are tight and stiff, I want to sleep, but I can't. When Harry asked me to sleep in his bed, I was in shock, I thought he wanted me to take the floor, or the balcony ledge, but no, the same bed with him-
I heard a tired groan, it came from Harry. I looked over at him and he looked at me with tired high drunken eyes.
"Oh, you're here?" He muttered.
That kinda hurt.
"You begged me to stay." I smirked, over exaggerating a little bit.
"I did?"
"Mhm." I hummed.
"Why are you still awake? Also, why would I beg you to stay?" He shook his head, running a hand through his curls.
"I'm not tired, and I wouldn't know. Do you want me to leave?" I said, closing the leather journal lightly.
He ignored my question "what are you always writing in there?" He pointed to my journal.
"You say that you apparently know 'more about me than I know about myself.'" I repeated his words from a couple nights ago "so just let this be something that you don't know about me." I said.
"Understandable." He hummed.
"Thank you for understanding." I smiled.
"Aren't you scared?" He questioned out of the blue, pulling the black comforter over his legs.
"Of what?"
"Me." He said blankly, staring into my eyes.
"Sometimes; but right now, no."
"Why? I'm a psychopath." He slurred from some of the many shots of vodka still in the waves of his system.
"You keep telling me that, at first I thought you were sick and twisted, but now," I exhaled "I just see someone who's misunderstood laying next to me..." I ran my fingers through my full brown hair, puffing it out a bit.
"Last night never should've happened." He shook his head, dark green irises burning into mine.
"What do you mean? It was fun..well except for the whole...you know." I sighed, my throat hitched at the sensitive topic.
"No. No, you see this is exactly what I was worried about. When I'm drunk or high off some shit; I'm playful and horny and will fuck anyone that wants me. But you still think I'm the same guy when I'm sober, I'm- I'm not." He stated.
"Okay." I shrugged.
"Okay?" He questioned "that's it?"
"Yes, I'm dropping the subject."
"Good." He muttered under his breath before pulling himself out of bed, I gazed up at his perfect figure.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have an immaculate body?" I said, staring him up and down.
"Breelyn." He stated, walking to the bathroom, glass was shattered on the floor, red streaks finishing it off.
"Sorry, sorry." I surrendered, but I wasn't actually sorry.
"You have to quit being nice to me, you need to be afraid, I don't get how you aren't afraid, I don't, I'm going insane." He said, opening the medicine cabinet and pulling out a toothbrush and dental paste.
"Why do you want me to be scared?"
"I'm more dangerous than you think."
"Prove it then." I crossed my arms.
"You don't want me to." He said firmly, bringing the brush to his mouth, brushing his straight teeth, spitting the paste out every once in awhile.
I opened my brown leather journal once more, I still had more too say; more too write.
-Harry is brushing his teeth. Yep, weird observation, but with the things he's said to me today, this is the most normal thing he has done. He tells me he is dangerous, I don't- I don't get it. What makes him dangerous? Okay, maybe the obsession with the switch blade is a tad weird, but we all have our weird obsessions; I'm obsessed with the color deep red, it's my nail color, the pen color, I even have a tattoo on my hip bone in that color. My world revolves around that specific deep red shade. Harrys walking back to the bed right now, he probably wants me to leave. I will, well, once he asks of course. He's signing, oh Harry, what are you mad about now? My hand is starting to cramp from all this writing, but I won't stop writing, it gives me joy, happiness, value. "What are you always writing in there?" He asked me earlier when he awoke from his sleep. I just want one thing to myself Harry, just one thing. I really hope this is the one thing you'll never know about me, considering you say you know more about me than I know about myself, I don't know how that is possible, but you know my full name; probably more information that I don't want to get into. Now Harry is muttering he is going to make breakfast, I silently hummed back at him in response. Harry left, I'll go follow him into the kitchen, so I guess this is the end of today's daily dose of writing. I'm signing off with this deep red, favorite colored pen.
-Bree xx
I propped myself off the bed, my legs shaking a bit, I stumbled over and smacked down on the hard tile.
"Ow..." I groaned, trying to pull myself up from the cold tile but I couldn't.
"Harry!" I hollered as loudly as I could so he could hear me from downstairs.
I heard slow footsteps walking up the spiral staircase, the more I listened; the closer they got.
Suddenly I see two feet in front of me, my cheek rested on the cold flooring.
"What the actual fuck are you doing?" Harry muttered, I picked my head up to look at him.
"I- I fell." I chuckled.
"Okay?" He looked at me like I was a maniac "Why didn't you just get up?"
"Wow, I totally didn't think about trying that." I stated sarcastically.
"Quit the tone." He said in a annoyed voice, "why'd you fall anyway?"
"Probably from the overwhelming, tiredness, and narcotics traveling through my blood stream."
"Most likely." He shrugged, holding his arm out.
I went to grip for his large hand, but he then pulled away his arm all together and murmured "wrist." throwing his arm back at me.
I rolled my eyes, grabbing his wrist and he pulled me up simply, my knees were still wobbly, but I can manage.
He walked out of his bedroom, I looked like a lost puppy trotting behind him to the downstairs kitchen.
Taking the final step on the staircase, I saw him standing at the fridge, the refrigerator door was swung wide open as he gazed up and down the plastic shelves.
I walked over to the kitchen island, pulling out a barstool, sitting on it as Harry pulled butter out of the fridge, followed by bread.
"Bread? In the refrigerator?" I asked, I wasn't judging, but I've always thought bread was kept in the pantry.
He quirked a brow at me "it stays edible longer, it doesn't mold as quick." He said, taking the red clip off the bag of bread, swiveling it around until the carb was exposed to air.
"Huh, I didn't know that." I spoke in disbelief.
"Yeah." He shrugged, pouting his bottom lip out, sticking four pieces of bread in the toaster slots for both me and him. He pulled the lever down and the toast disappeared into a heating process instantly.
"I'm exhausted..." I whispered to myself rubbing my eyes, my caramel eyes were now most likely blood shot from the alcohol, lack of sleep, and cocaine.
Not a good mix.
"Thought you said you weren't tired?" Harry gazed at me, referring to him asking me earlier while I was writing in my journal why I was still awake and I responded with 'I'm not tired.'
"Well," I said, my eyes drifting closed "M' tired now."
"You shouldn't have stayed up then." He shrugged his tatted broad shoulders.
"You're right." I said, as he slid a plate over to me, with two buttered pieces of toast. I didn't even notice breakfast was ready. I was too lost in my own thoughts to notice.
"Thanks." I hummed, bringing the hot buttered toast to my mouth and taking a bite, "it's good."
Harry didn't respond, he took a plate and walked over to the couch, I furrowed my brows because he didn't sit by me; I didn't protest though, I continued to eat my breakfast.
Harry Styles
I'm trying to distance myself from her.
Last night...went way too far. Bree should've never came to the club with me. I'll admit I lead her on, but I couldn't help it. It's not like I meant too.
If something intimate did happen last night, which thankfully no intimacy happened between us, then I would've been screwed.
I would've fucked her, then go back to my old sober ways, of constant threats and ignorance and no pet names or none of that shit, well except for cigarette slut. She would still want me but; I wouldn't want anything to do with her.
It's not like I care about her feelings, but it would be annoying, her constant begging for me to have sex with her, talk to her. It'd get old, and she'd be hurt in the end if I shut her out of my life, well, at least until I got drunk and horny with her again. But there is no again, it's never going to happen again.
That's why I'm trying to get her to hate me. How does she not hate me? Why isn't she scared of me? I'm a fucking psychopath, sociopath for fucks sake.
I just want her to hate me, but she won't. I called her baby. She won't drop it, I can't be around woman when I'm drunk, I would never take advantage of them or anything of that matter, but I'll end up breaking their hearts. I'm a heartbreaker, rejecter, and controller. Also cant forget the main points sociopathic, psychotic, alcoholic, and ninfo.
At least I'm self aware.
I took another bite of my toast, when I heard something shatter, I whipped my head over the shoulder and saw broken white pieces of glass on the floor, and Bree's head was rested on the kitchen counter hiding in her arms.
"Seriously?" I muttered to myself, setting my almost empty plate on the couch and walking over to the mess.
I first looked at Bree, she was asleep, on the counter, sitting in a barstool.
She must've fallen asleep, then knocked the plate over. I remember her complaining about how exhausted she was.
I contemplated on waking her up, I didn't. Because she would just apologize over and over again for making such a mess, and it would get annoying. I'll just clean the mess up myself, I guess.
I sighed, walking to the pantry and opening it searching for a broom and dustpan. I spotted both of them and grabbed it swiftly walking back to the white glass plate that was shattered on the floor.
I swept it up quickly, then after it was made into a pile I scooped it up into the plastic dustpan. Then, I walked over to the trash can and emptied the plastic pan.
After putting all the cleaning supplies away, I looked at Bree, her brown hair was fanned out onto the table, her cheek was now against the counter and her arms were no longer covering her sleeping face.
I shrugged, and walked over to the couch, picking up my plate and throwing the crust of the toast away into the half empty trashcan, then putting my plate in the large sink.
Now, I wanted to get high.
///