Malefactor [H.S.]

85

i would recommend rereading 84 or even both 83+84 to jog your memory. if not, the beginning of 83 has a recap of everything that's happened recently plot-wise (minus 84 ofc), so at the very least, i would skim over that first

Harry Styles

I hate the taste of cigarettes.

I hate the taste, I hate the smell, I hate that the smoke always lingers behind no matter how hard I try and get rid of it. I hate that these stupid fucking sticks have the potential to give me cancer and fuck up my lungs beyond repair every time I take a drag and I don't even get a high out of it—yet I still find myself turning to them every time my stress levels reach previously impossible heights.

Now, I hate them most of all because every time I've touched a cigarette this year, Camden's pain and suffering have been the root of my desire.

I've smoked a total of three times since January. Once, all the way back in April when I set Camden up to rob that liquor store. The guilt was eating me alive, so I grabbed the carton of cigarettes that had been resting in my glovebox since November. It worked. I calmed down pretty quickly. I never would've comforted her in the alleyway if I was still so high-strung. The second time I touched a cigarette was last month while waiting in my car for Zayn and Niall so we could beat the shit out of Wyatt. That night should've been my first sign that smoking doesn't do shit anymore when it comes to Camden-related stress. I was jumpy, angry, and argumentative. The inhalation of nicotine did nothing to ease my anxieties surrounding Camden's mental and physical state.

And now, here I am, standing outside a SoHo police station at 3:47 A.M., a cigarette between my lips and a profound weight sitting on my chest; silently and slowly crushing me to death.

The soft orange glow of the filter draws me in like a moth to light, lifting my trembling hand to my watering mouth and commanding me to take another drag. Every time I wrap my lips around the stick and feel the toxic smoke infiltrate my lungs, I shut my eyes and pray to a God I don't believe in that this time, it'll actually do its job. I pray to whatever higher entity is willing to listen that this drag will be the one that finally calms my nerves like it's done in the past.

Cigarettes, as much as I hate everything about them, have always been an effective method of calming my nerves. But even on my second cigarette that's rapidly dwindling in size, I'm feeling particularly erratic. I'm ready to act on impulse and do something that I know I'll regret in the long run solely because I know it'll feel good as a release in this current moment. I was sure smoking would be enough to curb my urge to inflict bodily harm on others as it's successfully done before, but right now, it almost seems like it's making everything that much worse.

My hands won't stop trembling, my heart is racing, my teeth are clenched, and my free hand is balled into a tight fist at my side. There's a permanent, heavy scowl etched into my face as I repeatedly turn my head and look back at the building that I exited roughly forty minutes ago. If I don't look, I can actually take a breath without wanting to break my hands beating someone to death, but the moment I turn and glance at the only building lit up on this street, the minimal progress the cigarette made is overpowered in a millisecond. Because every time I turn and look at the building that lists what precinct number this police station is, the anger rumbling deep in my gut reaches a boiling point and it takes everything in me not to bash someone's head in.

Shutting my eyes, I let my head fall back to hit the brick exterior of the building I'm leaning against. A shaky exhale filled with smoke infiltrates the air. A soft chime of a door opening, followed by footsteps, can be heard, but I don't open my eyes. I already know who it is long before the familiar voice gently calls out my name.