The Styles Triplets

Chapter 29

I felt my knees give out beneath me.

The hallway tilted. Sound disappeared.

It felt like being hit by something massive and invisible—like my body understood before my mind could. Pain spread everywhere at once, sharp and numb at the same time, settling deepest in my chest. Because my heart was trying to reject the words Harry had just spoken.

"Alex—Alex!"

Zayn's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me before I even realized I had collapsed.

"Marcel...?" I whispered, barely hearing my own voice. "Dead?"

The word didn't feel real. It sounded foreign. Incorrect.

"Let's take her home," Harry said somewhere nearby, his voice strained.

"Dead..." I repeated, limp in Zayn's arms.

The next thing I knew, I was in a car. I think it was Zayn's. Before he started to drive, I sat up and grabbed into his shirt, quite hard.
"You take me right to Marcel's house. Now."

Zayn turned toward me carefully. "Alex, you need to go home."

"No." My voice shook violently. "Take me to him."

"I don't think that's a good—"

"Take me," I said again, louder this time. "Or I swear I'll walk there myself."

The desperation in my voice must have convinced him. 

After a long pause, he nodded. "Okay."

Sinking back into my chair, tears filled my eyes. Tears blurred everything. My body hurt like I had run miles without stopping. My head pounded. My chest felt hollow and impossibly heavy at the same time.

This can't be true can it? Marcel is dead? How?! Why?! I just talked to him last night! He can't be dead! He just can't be!

People don't die between conversations. They just don't.

"We're here Al-"
Zayn didn't even have to finish his sentence before I was out I the car and in the house.

Anne was home and Harry must not have gotten back yet because he wasn't in sight. Anne was at the bottom of the stairs, crying.
"Oh Alex, you shouldn't be here." She told me through her sniffles.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Don't look Alex. Don't go." She begged.

"I need to see him." I said slowly, taking her hand.

Anne squeezed my hand, defeated. "He's in his room."

I climbed the stairs quickly. The house felt wrong—too quiet, too still.

As I passed the bathroom, I saw it. Pill bottles. Liquor bottles. Scattered everywhere.

My stomach dropped. He didn't just die. He chose it.

"Marcel?" I called.
What are you doing? He can't hear you now.

I stepped into his room. He lay on the bed, completely still. Not sleeping. Not resting. Just... empty. My lungs refused to work. Every breath felt trapped halfway in my chest. I moved closer, one slow step at a time, until I reached his side.

"Oh Marce." I whispered to him, crying softly to myself.

He always hated when I cried.

His hand was cold when I took it. Cold in a way no living person ever is.

"Why would you do this?" I murmured. "Why would you leave me?"

The words came out gently, almost conversational. As if he might answer. Talking to him felt strangely comforting—even knowing he wasn't there anymore.