Love Hangover (Harry Styles Fanfiction)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2-

Abriella's POV

"Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep." The piercing sound exiting through the amiable speakers of my alarm clock awoke me from a dreamless, but successful night of sleep. Groggily, I stretched my arm to my left to attempt to stop the monstrosity of a sound. After feeling the press of a button, and hearing a click, I brought both of my tender, soft hands to each temple, rubbing lightly, while still adding force, trying to relieve some of the tension that continued to build up inside my brain, causing immense pain to spread throughout my already aching body. I groaned, and covered my blue eyes with my small hands, remembering that I had to have all of my belongings moved out by 8AM, which happened to be fifteen minutes from the current time. "Well shit." I cursed, even though I knew that nobody was present, nor could someone hear me. I removed the white, silky sheets and teal bedspread, and peeled them away from my bare body, revealing only my undergarments that stuck to my pale skin like glue. As I stood to the cold, wood floor on my bare feet, I immediately had to sit back down on the side of my bed, feeling the effects of a hangover hit me almost instantly. I groaned silently, forced back the pain, and stood up, walking to my closet to pack every belonging of mine into one suitcase, so I could officially start my new life.

I was almost done packing, picking the last few shirts off of the hangers that hung on the rack in my closet. When I was done, I stood back and admired all of my work, everything emptied, and now lying in a suitcase, the only thing to my name. I threw my hands on my hips, wiggled my toes, and looked around the room, seeing nothing covering, or plastered on the teal walls, or lying on the dark, oak, wood floor. I smiled slightly, and turned back to my closet. I threw my infamous, Aviator sunglass over my eyes, pushing back my blonde hair, and letting the arms of the glasses glide onto the curves of my ears. I bent down to pick up my Louis Vuitton purse, latching my fingers on my right hand onto the black strap, and pulling the zipper up on my black, studded boots. However, something suddenly caught my eye. The ever-so familiar, bulky handwriting stood out in my mind, picking out the words 'Mom's Stuff' written in black Sharpje on the front of the cardboard box. I gulped, and was somehow unwillingly transported to the exact spot where the cardboard boxes sat; unmoved, and still. I stood in front of them, feet planted flat on the ground, just admiring them closely, expecting them to open themselves, or vanish into thin air like the smoke coming out of the end of a cigarette, or the pollution that comes out of the exhausts of a car. Gaining enough strength, I bent down and hastily, but tenderly opened each flap that held the box closed, allowing recognizable belongings of my dead mother to come into plain view. I grabbed each object slowly, admiring its importance, and trying to remember when it might have been from. There were dolls of what I assumed were mine, numerous dance trophies from her outstanding career, and a photo album full of unforgettable, and irreplaceable photographs. I opened the brown cover, and flipped through each film, plastic page, admiring all of the photos of my mother and I, even ones that I wish I never uncovered. The only thing about the photographs that was unrecognizable however, was the faces in the photos. Each picture held a young, blonde girl, and older seemingly un-ageable, and vibrant woman. The young girl was either laughing, or smiling in every photo, obviously happy and joyful. You could tell that she had not a care in the world, seemingly looking like she was living a fairytale that is only seen in movies. Her vibrant skin, and her ocean-like blue eyes could stick out from a mile away. I gasped, and unresponsively brought my hand up to my mouth as I felt the brick in my throat, the pang in my heart, and the blurred vision that I was succumbed to as a result of numerous tears flooding my blue eyes, threatening to flow down my face, off of my shirt, and onto each, and every photograph. That little girl was me, in a younger version of course. However, she was the actual me, the one with a smile that stretched from cheek bone to cheek bone, and the me that contained a vibrant, loud, and undeniably obnoxious laugh that contained a few small snorts when there was something immensely funny. The me that had two loving parents, one that was still alive and didn't suffer from a life-threatening, seemingly "killer" disease, and another that was always working, but undeniably found some time to spend moments with his family, times that were always kept in the heart. The little girl in the photographs, that was Abriella Claire Fulton, the one that was present in this time, was just another messed up teenager; one that found the real thrill that existed in life in the bottom of a Red Solo Cup that once held eight ounces of Jack Daniels. Angrily, I threw the belongings back into the box, wanting the everlasting memories not only out of reach, but out of sight. I threw the disheveled belongings farther into the corner and stood up rapidly, pulling my sunglasses over my eyes once again forcefully, wiping the remaining tears off of my face, and wiping my damp hand onto my pants, hopefully ridding of any feelings and water that once existed on the palm of my hand, currently wishing emotions, and feelings never existed.

I latched all of my fingers around the handle of my suitcase, and stormed out of the room that once contained all of my belongings.Struggling to carry the heavy bag down the stairs I peeked out behind my sunglasses and saw my dad sitting at the wooden, dining room table sipping 'Yorkshire' tea from his London Eye cup. I froze, and shifted my weight onto my left leg. My eyes widened from behind my sunglasses. "You were supposed to be out..." He paused and peeked through his glasses at his brand new, Rolex watch that sat in the middle of his wrist. "Twelve minutes ago." He finished, picking his coffee cup up again and bringing it to his lips slowly, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. He shook his head and scooted his chair out, walking into the kitchen as I stood in front of the door silently thinking of one last remark to say to the man. "Well, I guess that I won't waste one more minute of your time." I replied, barely a whisper as I slammed the front door, and walked down the front porch steps, boots clacking, and my one suit case trailing close behind. There was honestly no turning back now. I have officially walked away from my life, my past, and my life that once existed. Almost forgetting, I pulled the all-to-familiar train tickets out of my back pocket, admiring the words monogrammed onto the filmed and laminated paper. The infamous destination? London, England.