trepidation | h.s

part forty eight

tw// descriptive violence

Lydia Styles

It's now or never.

We save Harry and kill Xavier and Amy, or we die here.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay up here?" Zayn asks me as the three of us stand in the lobby.

"Harry is still down there in danger. I'm not sitting back and waiting." I say sternly.

Everything that has happened tonight is taking a toll. I feel so much adrenaline but at the same time, I feel overpowered by my fears.

For some reason, I had a very specific worry among my whirlwind of concerns. My clothes. My sweater has both my blood and the blood from Harry's clothes on the front of it, along with ash and smoke from the fire and my whole body feels dirty and violated from everything that's happened. I want to rip my clothes off and shower but I can't.

I feel panic rising within me as the material keeps touching my skin. I felt claustrophobic. The bloody part clings to the tank top I wore underneath like moss to a tree. It was actually a very scary feeling...irrational, yes...but still incredibly anxiety inducing.

I start to exhale heavily through my mouth, my fingers unable to decide if they want to thread through my hair or anxiously scratch up and down my arms over the sweater.

"Fuck." I mutter to myself quietly, not realizing how obvious my breakdown was until I felt a pair of arms grasp my shoulders.

"Lydia, breathe." Louis says, holding me still as I drop my arms down to my sides, my eyes tearing up.

I don't know why I'm so upset by this. I guess in these situations, it's the tiniest things that can set you off. I need to get this sweater off of my body.

I breathe in and out, shutting my eyes as Louis holds my shoulders.

"I-I need to take my...m-my sweater off. It's bloody." I stammer as this anxiety attack takes over.

I don't open my eyes because I don't want to see Louis and Zayn's reactions to my irrational words. They probably think I'm crazy, acting erratically over a fucking knit sweater.

I feel Louis' hands slip off of my shoulders.

"Okay." he simply says.

My brows knit together as my eyes slowly open, seeing both Louis and Zayn looking at me...but they didn't hold an ounce of judgement in their faces.

I sniff and bring my shaky hands to the hem of my sweater, peeling the material up and over my head so I'm left in my grey tank top. I discard the sweater to the side, shivering as I rub my hands down my arms. I can feel sore areas with my fingertips from all the places I've been grabbed.

My body doesn't even feel like it's mine. It's been beaten and drugged and it makes me feel so...disgusted.

My eyes drift down to my arms and I see the markings. Purple fingerprints from Xavier's grip were littered on my skin. He's marked me up in violent ways. I can only imagine what my face looks like. I didn't realize until now how much they did to me. I'm humiliated.