Picking Up the Pieces // Harry Styles

Twelve

Bit of a longer one. 'Love Me Tender' by Elvis Presley on the side. <3

Twelve

Four a.m. was when I finally shut my eyes.

When I was a real girl, my father and mother would tuck me in at night, read me a beautiful fairytale I wished was real, and checked for the monsters under my bed. They'd tell me it was all right and no one would come to get me in the night. Now I was all alone, monsters dragging me under the bed with them, then spitting me out when they were done hurting me.

Mother would read me a poem as she braided my hair, lacing words of Dickens, Poe, and Twain into each strand of my hair. Maybe she was the reason for my dark mind. I was saying, "Nevermore" at the age of five or six.

When I was a real girl, I had no fascination of the dead. Then my grandfather died. Maybe thaat's when my bright sunshiney world began to dim.

Grandpa Robinson was a good man. He smoked quite a lot as he told me about the simpler times.

The times when guys had to ask for her father's permission to take the girl out.

The times when girls were all about modesty and class and not wearing such scandalous clothes.

The most beautiful girl in the world was Marilyn Monroe who was not a size zero.

I was obsessed with vintage things because I longed to go back to that time. Those were the times when it was all about having fun. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. They had late nights at those roller rink places and dancing along to the the Beatles and the Supremes in the diners with the jukebox playing loudly. Girls were dancing in their poodle skirts and shimmying to the beat and it wasn't to impress or seduce a guy but merely for a good time.

I watched the smoke float out of Grandfather's pipe. "Like Sherlock Holmes!" I'd recall with a laugh as I sat on his lap.

He'd laugh heartily, whole chest vibrating. "Good that your parents got you reading."

"Clementine doesn't read."

"Keep your mouth shut," Clementine growled, before storming out of the living room with a roll of her eyes. I stuck my tongue out at her. "

Then Clementine's walking in the dark." I was confused. My small mind couldn't process what he meant by that. "Books open your eyes, child," He said softly, lifting my face up to his eyes with his wrinkly hands. "Everyone's got a story. Authors and writers are always depressed, honey."

"Depressed?"

"Sad. Melancholy."

"Why?"

"The only one who listens is a blank sheet of paper." He blew his pipe a little more. "Each word is a warning. The author never wants the reader to experience the pain he or she is going through. A book is like a guide. The character is advising you to change and to learn from your mistakes."

"A book?" I scrunched up my nose. "Really, Grandpa?"

"Sherlock Holmes warns you about despeciable people. It teaches you how to catch and point them out."

"What about Harry Potter?" I asked with a little smile.

"Don't go to the bathroom alone." We both laughed as we nuzzled each others noses, making us both laugh.

Mother said he died because his lungs were no good. Mother said he smoked to much. Mother said a lot of things, but I thought he was pretty cool.

"Don't forget your coat." Ed said. I gave him a grateful smile as he helped me put it on.