Stay Green || [h.s.]

Chapter Five

Hello hello! Another chapter for ya :)

We're starting to get into a little bit of the conflict & angst (aka my favorites). This chapter is still heavily inspired by the same Harry song as last chapter.

I am really enjoying building a unique sort of rapport between Callie and Harry. I hope it's coming across! Please do let me know what you think <3

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Harry Styles

My father's hands were always covered in calluses. Rough and abrasive against my skin.

He'd come home reeking of vodka and cheap women's perfume. The scent would always have my skin itching in sinister anticipation of when he'd snap.

And he always would. 

If I wasn't being too quiet, I was too loud. If I wasn't irritating him with a hello, I was being rude by staying in my room. If I wasn't ruining his life by breathing, I was causing him an inconvenience by wanting to die.  

And I'd feel those hands on me. Wrapped roughly around my writs, holding me in place as I desperately tried to flee the fury of his fists. My skin grew rough and raw from his punishing grip until I eventually stopped fighting.

Some fates are inevitable.

But those hands still haunt me. Even years after I pried them from my neck for the final time and showed him exactly what my hands are capable of. Unbeknownst to him, my father taught me how to fight. I know all too well how to hit where it hurts. Another precious parental lesson I suppose.

I shake my hand roughly, twisting my wrist to expel the feeling of whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was's spindly fingers on my skin. She had managed to press her thumb directly into the self-imposed cigarette burn just under my watch strap. The unexpected jolt of pain did nothing to actually hurt me, but did everything to piss me off.

That and the fact that she clearly was making Callie uncomfortable.

I don't allow myself to linger on why that bothers me as I trudge across the perfectly manicured lawn, tossing my now empty solo cup to the ground. I can hear Callie's light footsteps behind me, and I nod subtly to myself because once again I am correct in assuming she'll follow me.

Girls like her always follow boys like me.

Girls who grew up in white picket fence neighborhoods. Girls who spent their summers at exclusive country clubs. Girls who went to college. Girls who had the fucking luxury of learning how to golf at a young age. Girls who make their parents proud. Girls with pretty blonde hair and sunburnt cheeks. Girls who drink Ginger Ale at a party.

To them I'm an oddity. Something to steal glances at from the corner of their eye, only a few daring to get close enough to have a good look. I'm a novelty that scratches an adolescent itch to piss off their parents, only to laugh it off years later over a glass of wine when escaping their investment banker husbands. I'm a phase, a rite of passage, a memory that will get them off when they're lying awake at night for years to come.    

I know my fucking place. And it's exactly where I want to be.

However, I can't shake the feeling that Callie might be following me for another reason on top of all the usual motivations.

There was an undercurrent of astonishment and intrigue in the way she looked at me when we first met in that hallway. It went beyond physical attraction or typical fan adoration. She looked at me like a desperate believer might behold a holy apparition. Like a kid finally confronting the monster in their closet. Like a small child finally seeing their long absent mother's face in the crowd.