Error. [H.S.]

16.

Scotty Klein.

In attempt to alleviate negative feelings associated with the confinements of an elevator ride, mirrors surrounded me from every angle. Instead of rewiring the psychology in my brain to bring ease to the idea that my fate lies solely in the hopes that the cables and chain links ascending the cab were secured, the reflections contradicted their given intentions as the every mirror multiplied the imagine in my hand ten times over.

The beautifully cruel advantage of the mirrors is that they are installed in an elevator to past the time by providing a distraction. Whether the distraction is admiring your own appearance, or observing those surrounding you, it was a window into reality. There's no escapism in the art of present time self-reflection, especially when your uttering silent prayers to avoid the realm the mirror represents.

No matter where my eyes were directed, the photograph demanded eye contact in the most selfish way. A silicone oxygen tube was pinched in a gloved hand, the focus of the frame adjusted to draw the attention away from Niall. In the blurred background, his eyes were lulled shut, either from the lack of oxygen or medicated slumber.

Either way, reality was about to take his breath away.

The luxury of being on one of the highest hotel floors served as no true privilege in a time of crisis. A sense of helplessness has caught me by the throat as the digital number at the top of the elevator cab increased slowly. My heart drummed against my rib cage to the beat of my anxiety, orchestrating a symphony not easily controlled. As the conductor of my body's orchestra, I felt a crescendo of emotions building up with every breath. The urge to cry combated with the urge to hyperventilate, each demanding their own solo in this piece composed by fear. Not even the synchronization of my breathing to the tempo of the passing floors seemed to accommodate the rhythmic conflict.

"Don't be dead, don't be dead..." I whisper under my breath, fingers clutched tightly to the card stock, potentially holding onto the last known moments of Niall's life.

Where ever Harry is, I hope he's not using this an opportunity to put a final score to their rivalry.

A distinctive chime alerted my senses faster that the doors were able to open. I shot down the hallway as fast as my legs could take me, but the room numbers couldn't pass by fast enough.

"Dad! Dad, open your door!" My voice bellowed down the empty hallway, sounding an alarm before I even neared his hotel room. "Dad! Wake up!"

Panic rippled from my tone, desperation scratching at the back of my throat. Every step forward felt like it was treading me backwards by ten feet. Adrenaline pulsated through my veins, motivating my pace with every passing second.

"Help! I need help!" I pleaded with my vocal cords to give me the volume needed to waken him. "Somebody help me!"

Urgency fueled my race down the long hallway, my boots clashing against the expensive tile in loud booms. I ran like my life depended on it, and in a sense, maybe it did.

Maybe this begins the demise of the only serenity I know anymore. The last moments before grief drapes over my eyes like a black veil, and I lose the person that breathes fresh air into my lungs when I've exhaled out all of the toxins.

I'd rather close my own casket before I see his close. He has so much to offer the world, his story is just beginning.

"Shit!" My body nearly collided with the door to his hotel room, a responsive swing drew it open just in time.

"Kid, slow down." He squinted his eyes, adjusting to the florescent overhead lights. Tiredness glazed over his eyes where concern should be laced, but for the first time in days, his attention was dedicated to understanding my crisis. "What's going on?"