film // styles (on hold!)

chapter one

MY LIFE WASNT REALLY EVENTFUL. The only very eventful thing that took place in my life was my parents' divorce when I was eleven, and the whole neighborhood knew of it. Hell, maybe even all of New York knew.

Gossip buzzes through New York City more than the cars and people do.

My life had no meaning, really. It was dull and boring, like any other person's life. My life had never been exciting. It had always been average and colorless.

While all the kids in the neighborhood were outside playing or going to the cinema or going to amusement parks, I was in my room dressed like an astronaut and filming myself with a green screen behind me, pretending I was in space.

I was an artsy child. I made movies and filmed everything back home in England and put them on the telly for my parents to watch and admire. It was a huge accomplishment, and that was back when my family was a huge and smiley one. A 'Brady Bunch' family, I must say. My grandmother would knit itchy sweaters and give them to us for Christmas, and we would smile through the scratchy wool.

Chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast everyday, no matter the occasion. Spaghetti and meatballs every Friday, no arguing. Family picnics once a month on the twenty first of every month--sun, rain or snow. Birthday parties that last at least three days and always ended with my drunk Uncle Raymond.

Life for my family was grand and couldn't get any better. But the divorce ruined everything.

Reality kicks you in the ass when you least expect it to.

"Hey, Harry, can you help me move this box?" my mother asked exasperatedly. I mumbled a yes, still typing out my text message. She groaned and snatched it from me.

"Harry Edward Styles! Your face is always glued to your phone screen! Please just help me!" She scolded, pocketing my phone.

"Yeah, can I have my phone back?" I ask, reaching over, but she slapped my hand away, tsk-ing at me.

"Five seconds and you can't live without your phone." She mumbled with a bit of judgement in her tone.

Anne isn't a bad mother, just not accepting of my life's choices. Like me quitting on making films. That was a decision I wanted to make.

"Harry, are you gonna help?"

"Oh. Yeah." I scratch the back of my neck, chuckling to myself. I lift the larger of the many boxes. My mother wouldnt be able to pick that up--she has arthritis in her hands.

Something inside the box rattled, and I tried to tune out the annoying tink, tink, tink sound. Perhaps it was the antique pots and pans my mother insisted on keeping, even though before the move we bought a new silver collection.

"Where do I put this?" I call out, panting, wiping sweat from my forehead. My curls fell in my face, sweat stinging my eyes. I set the box down at my feet, and I toe at it, bored.

"Um," she drawled out the word, pinching her lips together in thought. "Over by the green couch, maybe? I dont know, Harry, put it where it fits." With that, she turned back and picked up a new box.

"Arighty then," I mumble to myself, licking my lips. I groan as I struggle to pick it back up again, feeling the blood rush to my face painfully.

It takes about ten seconds to balance myself with the box in hand, walking unsteadily to the couch across the room. It crashes down onto the creaky hardwood floor, and I breathe in a sharp breath, opening the box to see if anything was broken, only to frown.

It's my old camera.

I haven't used it in nearly a month, and I have no interest whatsoever to pick it up and turn it on again. There are better things to do than have a camera with you everyday.

"What was that crashing sound?" My mother runs in, angry and slightly panicked. When she sees my face, her expression softens. "Oh, I only took that because I didn't know if you'd go back to it or not..."

"No, mum, I'm not going to, ever. I told you this!" I nearly shout at her, slamming my hand against my thigh in frustration. My mother jumps, eyes widening as she looks down at her feet. "I'm going to throw this piece of shit away."

She doesn't protest, so I pick it up, carrying it to the dumpster at the end of our driveway, opening the lid and putting it inside. The bin is filled with rubbish, so the camera just settles on top.

I almost have the urge to smash the piece of junk, but I change my mind.

Dusting my hands off on my pants, I stomp back up to our new home, watching as my mother shakes her head in sadness at me, running upstairs, slamming a door.

**

All the boxes are in the house by now, we just have to unpack them.

One of the movers offered to help for free, since he 'saw us struggling', as he told my mom, who's eyes were wet and puffy, her nose red.

I sat on the ugly green couch. Anne gave my phone back, thank the lord, and I scrolled through Tumblr. Nothing interesting. My messages were empty. Bored and aggrivated, I tossed my phone to the side of me. It bounces once.

Leaning back, I fold my arms under my head, closing my eyes. Not to sleep, but to think. I'm always thinking.

Someone bangs on our front door, and I jump, my thoughts spilling out of my ears. "Who is it?"

"It's your mum, Harry. Open the door, I'm locked out."

"Oh." I sit up, rubbing my eyes, pushing myself off this ugly couch. I've told my mum to throw it away plenty of times, but she refuses. I don't know why.

I pull the door open, letting my mother in. She has a purple wrapped box in her arms, and it looks like a struggle to carry, so I happily take it from her frail arms. She looks as if she wants to say thank you, but she doesn't. I nod.

I put the box on the coffee table.

"What's in the box?" I wonder, placing my hands on my lovehandles, staring curiously at it.

"Oh, someone across the street gave it to us, said it was for you." She shrugs, running her hands through her wispy hair, looking at me expectantly.

"What?"

"Open it!"

"Oh, right." 

I pick up the white notecard, reading it. 'for the little one,' it says in a sloppy scrawl. I scoff, slipping my finger under a free tap in the wrapping paper, ripping it open. A white box is underneath, and when I open the lid, I'm confused.

Inside lies an eyepatch, settled in the exact middle of the box, surrounded by a shit ton of...quarters? Picking up the eyepatch and flipping it over, I see a sticky note is stapled to the patch. 'Keep this secret, it's our secret, okay? Meet me at the rocks at the beach tomorrow at noon.'

Another note is in it. 'Welcome to the neighborhood'.  Probably to cover up the weird note before.

"What is it?" My mother asks. I forgot she was there.

"Oh, just a note saying 'welcome to the neighborhood'," I say, smiling slightly.

"Aw, okay. I was hoping it was a sweet." She smiles brightly and wanders to the kitchen, humming The Beatles.

I don't know why she didn't ask why it was a note inside a box, but whatever floats her boat, I guess.

All that's on my mind is, who is this person? And, why do they want to meet me up?

--

hiya! first chappy is finally up! im sosososo excited and i hope you like it as well.

cover made by pillow-case :)

-maddy