His biceps are like a cage around me body. He brings us over to the couch where he sits me down on his lap, holding me more securely than iron chains. I don’t struggle or protest. I don’t care that I’m trying to ignore Harry. I bury my face in his chest and continue to cry for a good five more minutes. He strokes my hair lightly and rests his chin my my head. I just know that in this moment, he is not taking advantage of me. He is completely, 100% genuine. Once he is sure that I won’t run back to try and clean up the the broken mirror and vase, he slides me off of his lap but allows me to continue to cry into him. My hand stings from the deep cut inflicted by the broken vase.
“It’s okay,” He soothes me, “You are going to be alright.”
I close my eyes. Tears continue to flow, but soon less and less frequently. My breath begins to level and even with Harry’s. I sniffle and sit up a little straighter. Harry doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t demand an explanation but he looks at me, completely concerned and worried.
Damn it.
I miss my mum. I miss her so God damn fucking much. I want her back. I want her to be here. I don’t want her to be in a coffin in the ground. I don’t want there to be a tombstone that reads Hope Rose Turner: Loving Mother, Disciplined Artist, Student of life
I hate that tombstone. Mum would have hated it too. It sounds so pretentious and cheesy. Dad insisted on having something “poetic” engraved on her tombstone though. Like he had the right to say what mum would and would not have wanted.
The majority of the past two years of my life have been hell. It got a little bit better when I landed this job working with Lou and One Direction but today reminds me of the bad times. The times where I would cry all day until my eyes would swell and the days where I wouldn’t get out of bed. The days when I did much worse than hitting myself with a rubber band.
I inspect my wound, running my fingers lightly over the gash on my left hand. It’s deep and runs across the entire inside of my hand. The blood has finally stopped gushing and as I look over slowly, to see what Harry is doing, I see blood marks stained on his white V-neck shirt.
“I got blood on your white shirt,” I croak, completely horrified with myself.
“Evan it’s fine,” He says waving his hand in dismissal of the red patches on his shirt. He takes my hand in his and turns my palm upward so it’s facing him. I shiver a little bit at his touch. I tug my sleeve up slightly, self conscious. He looks at the cut closely, eyeing it carefully, “I think you’ll need stitches,” He surmises, giving me the permission to move my hand again. We don’t say anything for a little while. Time seems to stand still. I wonder where Zayn, Liam, Louis, and Niall are. Why was Harry walking in here in the first place? Where’s Lou? “Let’s go” Harry’s voice stops my train of thoughts.
“But-” I start to say something but Harry interrupts me.
“The photoshoot is over, and you need to get that cut looked at,” He insists.
“I’m fine-” I try again, but am interrupted once again.
“Evan you’re not fine. I’ll drive you to the hospital and back home,” It is not a question to wether he will drive me or not. I don’t argue this time and nod.
Harry stands up first and offers me a hand which I take, using my not wounded hand, Harry helps me up.
I feel slightly woozy. Like I may collapse or puke at any moment. I sway for a moment, my head swimming violently. Harry rests a hand on my shoulder, steadying my slightly, “Do you need help?” He asks, his voice filled with compassion and concern.
