Watermelon Sugar Die

Treat People With Kindness

WARNINGS AND WELCOMES: Bienvenue. Welcome. I go dark. Just a little. Want to go with me? Do you need a smut warning? I mean, it's Wattpad. Why else would you be here?

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The director yelled, "It's a wrap for today. See you back Monday at 6:00 A.M.!" With that, Harry Styles graciously thanked the staff and the film extras. He shook hands with key grips, clapped the backs of the lighting guys, and kissed the craft table workers on the cheeks. To one of the woman cleaning up the sandwich table, he promised, "I really am going to send your daughter a post card." The lady tossed an empty jar of artisan mayonnaise into a dumpster. "You're one of the good ones, Harry," she said. "That's going to be a twelfth birthday present she'll never forget!"

Outside the film set, the paparazzi were waiting for Harry. He paused to allow them to take pictures, let them soak in the floral Gucci shirt and high-waisted Versace trousers his style team had pulled for him. Every time a photographer waved to him and called, "Here, Harry," he flashed a beaming, white smile. Even the paps got nods and "Thank you's" from Harry. A gaggle of screaming girls pressed against the barricade. Their faces changed from year to year and place to place, but there were always screaming girls. "We love you Harry!' some cried. Some held up poster boards with glittery letters that proclaimed life long allegiance to him and his former boy band. They all held up their phones as Harry blew kisses and returned their declarations with, "I love you, too."

The film set security guards pulled Harry from the squealing teens and lead him to his flawlessly white Lamborghini. He shook the guards' hands and said, "See ya tomorrow, Burt. Mario, you and I still need to play a ping pong game sometime." The guards thought, What a good guy, as the performer entered his car. He pulled two fresh Italian white leather gloves from his console and slipped them over his fingers with a dramatic wiggle. Aaah...They still had that baby cow smell. As the Lamborghini merged onto interstate 710, Harry began hearing a pounding sound coming from his trunk. He quickly pulled onto the graveled side of the road. He walked around to the trunk. He knew that people might recognize him and pull their own cars over to ask if he had a flat tire. Or if he wouldn't mind calling their niece, or filming an Instagram story together. People were always watching, eager to connect, begging to be seen and acknowledged by him. He hid his distinct curls with the yellow bucket hat he had pulled from his back seat. The tapping sound from the trunk grew louder, more desperate. Harry pressed the trunk button on his key fob. Inside the trunk was a girl of about 14, skinny with stringy strawberry blonde hair, and terrified eyes. Harry saw the shivering young girl he bent forward with his gloved hand extended. " Didn't I tell you to die?" he shouted at the flinching adolescent. He reared back a fist and sank it into her screaming mouth before slamming the trunk. He shook his head at the sight of blood and saliva on his fine new glove. Three hundred and seventy-four dollars down the loo. On second thought, he said to himself as he watched blood drip from the tips of his fingers, This is kind of a look.

There was a web of remote dirt roads in the desert outside of LA. Harry knew them well now. And he drove there with growing excitement. From beneath his front seat, he pulled a short camping shovel. It wouldn't take much digging. It never did. No one came out that far. Harry opened the trunk again. The girl's face was covered in crusted blood. Two of her front teeth were now tangled in a wad of her bloody hair. "Shh... hush," Harry said, putting his finger to his lips. "This will be painless. The most serene ending anyone could ever ask for." The girl, who was far from soothed by his words, screamed a blood-soaked scream. Harry snatched her by her thin blonde locks, dragged the wisp-of-a-girl across the burning desert sands. "If I let go of your hair, dear, are you going to scream again?" She suppressed a rising whimper and shook her her small head side to side. "See, this is what happens when you meet your idols," Harry frowned. "You can only be disappointed. He wrapped his broad hands around the girls thin pale neck with great care and attention. Tears jumped from her eyes as Harry tightened his grip. At last the girl stopped crying, she stopped fighting, and all the desert was still and quiet. Harry only dug a small hole of 2 or 3 feet before throwing the girl's lifeless body into the pit. He placed a tender kiss on the girl's still warm lips. As he kicked the sand over her body with his Louis Vuitton Oxford shoe, he spoke to the corpse. "Look on the bright side. You'll always be pure and sweet, and you'll never outgrow One Direction." He kicked one final mound of sand into her gaping eyes. He laughed at his own depravity.

Only 10 hours before, he had seen the girl walking to school. Maybe she would be a fan or maybe not. Either way, his reputation as a kind soul preceded him. If she was bubbly and swinging around her iPhone, he'd take a photo with her, and move on. "You can take a selfie with me," he offered to the star struck girl on the sidewalk.

"I didn't bring my phone," The girl said, timidly. "We're not allowed to have them at school."

It had been too perfect a situation. And so rare for these days. No phone. No friend around. No houses with door bell cams in direct view. "Why don't I take you to your house?.... if you're not scared to ride with me."

Of course the girl wasn't scared. They never were. Sometimes, they would beg to come with him. But he had to be careful. He had to choose someone no one had really seen him with, someone he didn't know. It always had to be that way. It always had to be a person with little connection to Harry. A friend's gardeners' son, an old man walking his dog on a private beach, a lady selling her phone in a Craig's List ad. He didn't want to hurt them. Not really. He never sexually assaulted them. He wasn't a pervert. But the thrill of wrapping his hands around a neck, feeling the quickening pulse under his fingers, and feeling that pulse fade to nothing, well, that was bigger than himself. The thrill of holding a Grammy, of singing to one hundred thousand fans, of running his fingers through the hair of the world's most beautiful women, none of those came close to snuffing out a life force. Just a few more times, and he would stop. He looked across the pitted expanse where he had buried the girl with strawberry blonde hair. Now 23 shallow graves in the desert. "Just a few more, and then, I'll be satisfied," he told himself.