Forest Greens (Larry Stylinson/AU)

The Forest

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It was four-thirty in the morning. The sky displayed a beautiful gradient of dark blues, light blues and yellows while the forest beneath remained colourless in the dark.

Cool winds brushed gently past the leaves of the trees which currently seemed like silhouettes of tall, contorted, humanoid figures, hunching over the pathway that ran right through the heart of the forest; A very lonely forest where critters would rarely skitter about; a very quiet forest where only the trees would rustle and whisper to one another, passing on any breeze that rushed by.

The amount of silence within these woodlands was more than enough to drive most men into madness; most men. To Harry Styles however, the silence was rather placating; soothing to an unspoken agony of his that conflicted him day by day, the prompt for a daily stroll, four o'clock in the morning.

Harry walked along the shadowy path, feeling the dead leaves crush and crumble beneath his worn-out, beige chelsea-boots.

Gusts of icy air whisked against his tall, robust figure, causing the long curls of his dark brown hair to flow freely with the wind.

Although the wind had managed to ruffle up his hair and leave his light light-grey scarf hanging down his back, not once had the gusts cause him blink, no, instead, he wore on his face a desolate expression; his seafoam-green eyes fixed on a nearing house that was situated in the very middle of this forest; his home.

His house was in good condition; it was a log-cabin: a very large one. The front lawn had arrays of marble stepping stones that led towards the entrance of the house. Harry constantly cleaned and scrubbed these during his spare hours to avoid having the mud and rain of the forest permanently stain them over time; stains irritated him. Anything related to an unordered and messy lifestyle vexed him to the extremities, which is why the inside of his home was pristine; spotless; immaculate: the lacquered, wooden walls were arranged with black-framed photographs featuring different breeds of felines and the floors were covered in garnet-red carpeting.

In the living room sat two beautifully floral-patterned cabriole couches, one facing the other, with a rectangular, glass coffee table that sat between the chairs.

The layout of his kitchen was most impressive; this was most likely due to the fact that he enjoyed cooking.

There were two black-marbled tabletop counters, one running along the left wall of the kitchen, while the other ran along the right.

Both counters met at the stove: the grill could hold four large pots. On top of the stove was the fan, (like all stoves required.) On the left and right sides of the fan, ran along four white cupboards each, all containing pots, pans and plates.

The left and right walls of the kitchen also contained cupboards, but these were situated under the kitchen counters and they carried cups and all the related dishes. In the middle of the kitchen, stood an island where drawers for storing cutlery and other cooking utensils were stored beneath the surface of its black-marbled top.

There were six bedrooms, three bathrooms and two hallways in his house, however, Harry barely went into the other rooms of which were not his own.

In his own room, there stood a queen-sized bed with white, silk comforters and four plump pillows to match. On his bedside table laid a home-phone. The phone was one of the very few useless objects in the house according to Harry; he had no one to call, and nobody would call him. He didn't feel the need to call anyone and he didn't appreciate calls from others if the cause was unnecessary. He'd only pick up that phone to make a few calls concerning electrical issues once or twice a year. Other than that, the phone sat there, forgotten.

Harry had finally returned from his walk, reaching his front door. He checked the time on his analog wristwatch: "four-thirty five" it read. He was on time. Not once had he come home a minute late.

He grabbed his house key from the pocket of his army-green jacket and inserted it into the door handle before twisting it open.

As he stepped into the house, he heard the sounds of effeminate, muffled screams. Without a a single change in expression, he grabbed a baseball bat that leaned against the frame of the front door and casually walked to the kitchen, resting the bat on his left shoulder.

As he made himself a coffee, the screams continued, but Harry remained unfazed by the horrifying noises, but instead, he was constantly checking the time on his watch.

Ten minutes had gone by and the screams hadn't ceased. Harry checked his watch one last time: "four-fourty five", It read. And with that, he took his baseball bat and walked towards the two hallways, making a turn for the left.

The screaming soon stopped.