Little Freak {HS}

XVII - Demystify

Red hair. Wet and a face I either don't recognize or cannot see anymore.

They float back, or maybe it's the mirror that comes to our encounter. Either way, they get away from me, and I know I must try and stop them. I don't know why.

Just before it hits me, it stops, so I can look down at my reflexion. Father? What is it?

Move!

My body hits the floor with a muffled thud and an involuntary moan from the impact. It wasn't that much of a big fall, but just like it's an unexpected way to wake up, the parts of me that are hurt the most are the ones making contact with the old carpet and making all of this much more unpleasant.

I manage to get off of the blankets, instinctively and blind of everything, I bump in some of the furniture on my way to find the way out of the room.

There's a clear sky upon me as the door shuts itself behind me, both the brightness and the sound making my headache pound onto my skull harder and making itself known by making me cross my steps, barely keeping the balance.

But not once I stop walking to recover from it, or from the sleep or from the pain on my leg that adds limping to it. I want and need to get home just immediately, I'll manage my way there somehow, I know I will. But is looking like a sick, beaten up alcoholic the best way of arriving home to a mother like my own, probably out of hours of having lunch once again? Seriously, did I get wasted last night or what?

"Diana!" The call startles me, and I flinch, wondering how I got home this quickly. But no... this isn't my yard, and that's surely not our car. "Where are you going?"

I meet the deeper voice with wide eyes, meeting him, Styles, at putting a themed t-shirt on easily, allowing some tattoos on his abdomen to be glimpsed for a second, and then taking the messy curls from the colar to let them stay resting on his shoulders almost as if still sleeping, not brushing it to the side as he usually does. Where am I, first of all, is the question. I only suppose I must get out of here, and by looking at him, I don't know if to ask anything or either what to ask. He takes a couple of steps towards me, and I do the exact same back away.

"Alright, stop. What is going on?" I can see he's almost losing it, letting me do whatever and go wherever I want, he won't care about it. "I'm serious here, can I help you in some way?"

Can he, though? Can anybody? Is that what I'm missing? A little help from anybody. It has to be genuine and effective, only that way it wouldn't hurt to let somebody at least grab my hand to bring me back on my feet. It doesn't hurt not doing everything on our own, does it? And, practically, how would I use some help, this time?

"Say something. You can talk to me." He's suddenly two feet away from me, so his voice softens to a sweet, trusting, almost intimate tone. I keep looking ahead, which is at his chest now, having had my attention caught in his The Rolling Stones t-shirt. It doesn't go unnoticed how one of his hands lands on my arm in an hesitant touch, making sure it's okay to do that, first.

"Diana." He insists, rubbing his thumb on my skin softly and tilting to look for my eyes. I spare him the work, and after some seconds making sure he understands he's got my attention all too much, I spill out "Don't cal--"

But before I could finish the sentence, his hand moves to the back of my neck, and all in a swift move, he is holding my head against his shoulder and his other arm firmly around my own shoulders. I tense up at the contact, my body instinctively expecting bad things once again, and so I also squeeze my eyes shut. A silent tear rolls down from it, a bit of everything that seems to own my subconscious too.