21 Murders | Harry Styles AU (discontinued)

XLVIII. Victimize

victimize (verb):  single (someone) out for cruel or unjust treatment

Noelle's POV

"I cannot  believe this," Klara's palms smack down onto her jean-clad thighs, flabbergasted. Dim in the sky, the setting sun casts a shadow on her face while she darts her head as if looking for reasoning that will never arrive. "There is no way Professor Donovan is dead. I refuse to believe such foolishness right now."

My head tilts sideways as I stare at her over the roof of her car. "Believe it or not, that doesn't make it untrue."

An exhausted huff parts from her lips, the weight of the nearing situation growing heavier on her back just like mine. Like her, I feel the same weight casting down on me, pressuring my mind to take routes into the 'what if' category. It's hard to stay positive when walls keep crashing down around you.

As she plunks down into the driver's seat, I let me eyes stay focused on the spot she used to occupy. For a few seconds I let myself enjoy the weather, although noticing the very chilly breeze that sweeps my hair out of my face momentarily. Sighing, I divert my eyes to the handle and buckle my belt once seated.

Professor Donovan's death might not affect my everyday life, but it has put a major damper on things. As if a large, black raincloud has drifted overhead, I feel as though every thought processing through my mind has become more jaded. He was a lovely man who never deserved this tragic ending. Angst  finds a spot where confusion used to lay, burning fiercely in the sense that not only do I have more ambition to find this killer, but that I can sympathize with his family's loss.

It feels like millenniums since I sat before his teaching desk and listened intently to his unorthodox method of teaching. There was something so genuine and special about the way he cared for not only his students, but what he was teaching that made his lessons really stick. He stood out as special in my eyes, in a non-creepy way, and I will miss him. I really wish Harry would have gotten the chance to meet him at the gas station; it would have made him realize that he was nothing to be feared, but cared for.

"Maybe he killed himself?"

I'm disrupted abruptly from my train of thought when Klara so vaguely speaks up, optimism in her voice yet a serious expression adorning her scowling face. My jaw drops at her speculation.

"He was in a car accident, Klara. I highly doubt that can be fixed." Crossing my arms, I scooch back further into the comfy seat.

"You'd be surprised," she shrugs. "He could've done it? Possibly?"

I raise a brow. "Do you hear yourself speaking right now? You sound mad."

"Sometimes you have to out-sane the insane to think sane, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"This isn't the time," I purse my lips, not in the mood for her untimely humor. "He was a good person and it was a shame that it happened. I just wish we could have spoken to him before the accident."

"What about his family? We could try talking with them?" she suggests, flicking on her turning signal as we take a back road. The street's lampposts are dim and surrounded by buzzing moths as we pass each column of apartments.

"He never really spoke about them, besides his wife," I answer, uneasily. "I know he had family but he never had children. The last time I spoke to him about his family, was the day I was kidnapped." My chest flies forward in my seat as the car is brought to an immediate halt.

"Wait, what?!" she screeches.

"Ow!" I tug at my chest, pulling on the belt that has locked and almost crushed my sternum. My fingers rub the sore spot on my chest, trying to search for a purple bruise or some type of cut that could cause the harsh sting.