21 Murders | Harry Styles AU (discontinued)

XXX. Deranged

deranged (adjective): to cause to be psychotic or otherwise severely mentally unsound

[To clear some things up from the previous chapter, yes the museum trip was real, and then came the dream/flashback before she awoke in the hospital. El was envisioning what originally happened and I'll be clarifying over exactly how - next chapter. Sorry for the confusion! Harry just had to pee, haha.]

Harry's POV

How the hell did this happen? Why the hell did this happen? I was gone for one second to piss and now it's all my fault. Fuck.

Knotting my fingers into my hair, I pace back and forth down the shiny hospital hallway - envisioning the look on Noelle's face the second she woke up from her mini hibernation. Why was she thrashing like that?

Something tells me that the answer to this question is far too clear. I know what she was dreaming of before awakening. It's been two days since the museum incident and today was the first time the doctor said it would be right to awaken her from the constant cycle of medicines and slumber she was put on.

Somehow, Noelle had been induced with a rare drug during my time away in the toilets. The resistance level of her immune system wasn't as strong as the last, and her whole body crashed only minutes after indigestion.

"Mr. Styles?" A blatant nurse voices, tone low and monotone.

I turn to her small frame, the Looney Tunes characters on her scrubs not nearly as fascinating as they would be if Noelle was here standing next to me. Ransacking the idea, I look into her brittle brown eyes.

"Yeah, that's me,'' I nod, feverishly. "What have you found? Is she going to be okay? How long do we have to stay here?" My mouth keeps rambling, her eyes some-what sorrowful.

"We've had Ms. Robinson hooked up on the drip, so she isn't nearly as dehydrated as she was before. But, since we had to flush her system, the Propranolol is just now entering into her bloodstream."

"What does that mean?" My voice comes out un-relaxed and harsh. I bite my lip, her words coursing through one ear and out the other. My mind is so fuzzy that I can't even process her point.

"Propranolol administered within six hours after the traumatic event decreases the physiological reactivity to reminders of the traumatic event. What we just saw was..." her petite voice trails off, my nerves growing.

"It was what?" I demand.

"It was rather shocking,'' she sighs, tucking a strand of dull, black hair behind her ear. "Usually victims of scaring events show symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder within six months of the original event, and whatever incident recently happened two days ago must've shocked that part of her brain and brought whatever fears she had back to life. It was only a matter of time, really, before she suffered."

"How do we make them go away? What medicine does she need to take? I can pay for it- whatever it is. I have money, that isn't an issue,'' my voice tumbles out breathily.

Posttraumatic stress disorder?

"I'm sure you do, sir. But what she needs to do is be watched over in our mental ward for any more signs of PTSD; she could just be suffering from acute stress disorder. We don't know yet and want to keep her heartbeat regulated and make sure she doesn't suffer another panic attack like the last time."

So El had a panic attack in the hospital after I left her room, and passed out after her system shut down from whatever drug she digested in the museum.