Malefactor [H.S.]

78

first upload of june so happy pride month <3

Harry Styles

FIVE YEARS AGO.
JUNE 4, 2016.

The only good thing that Richard and Victoria have done as the absolute fuck-up parents that they are is sending Lilah and me off to live in the States. Not having to see them for ten months out of the year means I'm able to pretend that they don't exist; pretend that my only family is Lilah. With the exception of Christmas and Easter, August through early June is spent with blinders up that provide me with the ability to forget that the rest of them exist.

It's nice. The only reason I'm able to remain sane is due largely to the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean separating us for most of the year. If I had to live with them all year long, I'm convinced I'd turn to some sort of illicit activity by now just to cope.

Well, I'm not convinced. I know I would.

Ever since Richard and Victoria flew out here for Easter and remarked that they'd be back for Lilah's graduation, I've been filled with this overwhelming sense of panic, doom, and anxiety all at once. It started off as nothing more than the flicker of a thought in the back of my head and a burst of anger when I remembered I'd have to see them again so soon, but I was able to brush it off.

June 11th seemed so far away. As much as it bothered me to know that the time would eventually come when that day wouldn't be months away, I also knew that I couldn't agonize over it until then.

Now, it isn't months and months away. June 11th is six days from now.

Lilah graduates in six days and I've never experienced such intense anxiety in my life.

I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do. I was already freaking out knowing that she won't be here when I move back into the dorms in August, but then she told me this morning that she isn't coming back to London at all for the summer. No, she's fucking staying in the States and moving into the apartment she picked out as her graduation present.

"Harry." A hand stroking my arm has my eyes shooting upward. Sitting on the arm of the couch, Emma smiles down at me. "You want some blow?"

Mentally, she's somewhere else. Her pupils are blown-out, taking over the deep blue irises that have darkened in the poor lighting of this party. Her lips are curled into a lazy smile, continuing to stroke my arm that's strewn across her lap. My hand tightens its grip on her thigh. Her smile widens.

My sight drifts over to where some of our friends are bent over in front of the coffee table, white residue coating the wooden surface. Red solo cups and tall, clear bottles decorate the tabletop. Some girl I have a few classes with but whose name I never bothered to learn drags a rolled-up bill along a line. Two girls on either side of her laugh obnoxiously loud. One cheers while the other repeatedly claps her on the back as she sits back on her heels, a grin similar to Emma's stretching across her thin lips.

Between parties similar to this one, hanging out in someone's dorm, and pure curiosity, I've done coke more times than I care to recount.

Even if I did want to reflect on past endeavors, there's no way I'd be able to accurately pinpoint the sheer number of times it's entered my bloodstream. I'm not entirely sure why, but there's almost always a varying degree of memory loss that accompanies the act of snorting coke for me.

It sure does feel really fucking good in the moment but I hate how I feel the next morning. My tolerance must not be that great because it inevitably fucks me up for a few days. Considering my finals start on Monday, I don't want to deal with the repercussions of having snorted any tonight.