clouds ; l.h/c.h

CHAPTER THREE

Remember when I said Harry Styles's house was huge? Yeah, I wasn't joking.

The multi-story complex took up a neat 50 acres, and as 11:45 crept nearer, I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to find Darla.

I'd swept the basement and garage as thoroughly as possible while dodging the occasional humping couple. The entire first floor took me a little over an hour to complete, who's to say how long I'd even be at this shitshow for? I might even make it until the cops come.

Well, as TMI as this might sound, all that alcohol mixed with my refusal to eat dinner beforehand (I was under the impression there'd be a snack table that consisted of more then edibles and crackers with Dorito dip) made for a gnarly feeling in my stomach, and I was sure I was gonna barf my guts up any minute. I pushed my way up the stairs and landed on the second level of the house, dashing for the first door on my right. Nope. Just people having sex. Fuck.

I tried a few more doors down the line, all of which were either locked, preoccupied, or not a bathroom. I neared the end of the hallway and prayed a bathroom was on the other side of the final beige door of the walkway. My breath released once I turned the golden nob to find a bathroom. The only other inhabitants of the room was some chick I didn't recognise passed out on the toilet. I slammed the door and promised myself I'd wake her up after I was done.

I ran to the bathtub and fell to my knees, doubled over before I let out enough vomit to fill the pacific. After a minute or so, I coughed up what was left and smeared the warm tears off my face, wiping my mouth with my arm.

I turned to the girl on the toilet. She had it easy. Chillin on a toilet, not having to deal with the conscious coils of this crapfiesta. What a life to lead.

Pulling myself up, I stumbled to the sink, washing my face, in my mouth, and arms. I took a look at myself in the grand mirror of the Gucci guest bathroom at Styles manor, and I wasn't lookin too hot. My makeup had been smeered down my face, I assumed from my wiping my tears, and any form of lipgloss had been smeared long ago. I looked like a sad hooker, or Lindsey Lohan in 2008.

The girl on the toilet made an abrupt gurgling noise, and I turned just in time to see her burp herself awake.

"Hey."

"Sup," she sighed.

"Not much."

"Same."

We nodded in stale awkwardness.

A second or so went by before she stood - her pants were indeed intact with her buttocks - and hobbled to the door.

I reached a hand to her shoulder. "You, er, gonna do okay out there?"

She threw her head forward in what I assume must have been a nod. "Algood," she muttered. "Gawna go downstairs an beat up mah ex."

At least someone had their priorities in check.

"Go get em!" I cheered with a punch on the shoulder. And just like that, I was alone again.

Think, Kat, think. Where would Darla be?

I sighed as the thought overcame me; she probably went home. Fuck. Here I was chasing my tail, and Darla was probably home, safe and sound, away from the slobbering mass of Harry's party.

Home didn't sound so bad right now. So there was my new plan; get out, go home, apologise to Darla in the morning after my definite hangover subsided. Sounded good to me.

I toddled out of the bathroom (that still had my vomit shlurping down the bath drain - sorry Harry) and made my way down the stairs. I decided to grab a beer for the road from a nearby cooler, and was reaching for the golden door handle when a firm hand landed on my arm, and I was spun around.

I wish I had made it out the door that night...

"Harry! Hey!" I tried to grin through my tiredness at the six foot giant. "Great party! Sorry I really have to go-"

"Kat..." he began. Something was different in his eyes. He didn't look like his normal Harry self. His hair looked less pristine than usual, his face wore a somber expression, and his normally sparkly green eyes were heavy and dark. His hand still gripped my arm, shaking.

I placed my hand on his. "Harry... is something wrong?" Jeez, I guess I could stay for a few more minutes-

He pressed his lips into a thin line. "I think you really need to see this."

I glanced around; everyone downstairs was perfectly normal. Music was still playing. People were still drinking. Laughing. Talking. Everything seemed perfectly normal. So what was wrong?

I let Harry drag me back up the stairs, past the bathroom full of vomit, and up into the third story.

A heaviness hung in the air. My eyes were drawn instantly to the door at the end of the hallway. It lay cracked open ever so slightly. Just before us stood a couple; a girl who I didn't recognise sobbing into her boyfriend's chest. The boy (I'd seen him around before. Adam? Ashton?) stated ahead blankly, like he'd just seen a ghost.

The boy turned to us, his horrified eyes landed on me. "We just found her like that... I'm-" he cut himself off as tears welled in his eyes and his head turned down and he buried his face into his girlfriend's hair.

I looked to Harry for some clarity, but he just gave me a sad look and motioned to the door.

I tried to chuckle as I moved for the door. "What's going on?" I laughed. This must be a prank of some kind?

I pushed open the door with obnoxious force.

I froze.

There, on the bed, was a blood soaked Darla. Stiff as a board.

The beer bottle from my hand smashed on the ground.

I screamed.