What I Know -Niall Horan One Shot-

Hey! :)

So this is still an Abbey story, I just changed the plot and deleted the old story. Same title! :)

Song will be "Moments" by One Direction with rain effects. I know that it's not the title, I just want that to be the first song, because it's a gorgeous song that fits the chapter, and with rain it's absolutely heart shattering.

Picture will be the girl, Brielle! :)

I don't know if you can read the cover, but it says the title at the bottom, above it reading:

She's insecure

She's lonely

She's scared

She's depressed

(She's gone)

First one to comment gets the dedication! :D

Enjoy!

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Prologue

What do I know?

Let’s think.

I know where I am. Yes, I know that.

I know that everyone here is sad, just like I am. That’s a giveaway.

I know that I should be crying, but I can’t make myself.

Those are all easy ones. But what do I really know?

I know she tried to reach out to me, but I didn’t know it and within a second, she was gone.

I know that I could’ve done more to help her if I’d looked a little harder.

I know that she was trying in every single was possible to make me notice, but I was stupid enough to ignore every sign she held up.

I know that in all of the times I’ve seen her wrists, I never once thought about the scars and cuts.

I know that she would wince when someone hit her wrist, but I didn’t ever think much of it.

I know that every second I spent with her was taken for granted.

I know that she didn’t think as highly of herself as she should have. I know she didn’t see what I saw when she looked in the mirror. I know she would complain about tight shirts and dresses and wore baggy hoodies, sweats, and jeans. I know whenever she would laugh or smile, she’d quickly cover it up.

I know that I witnessed her being pushed around and bullied and I didn’t do anything about it.

I know that I was the worst friend possible to her, and now it’s far too late for apologizing and holding her when she needs to be held and telling her what she needs to hear.

I never said four words I’ve always thought. I could’ve changed her whole life with four simple words. “Brielle, you are beautiful,” are those four words. She’d never heard them. Never from her dad, never from her mum, never from me, never from her other friends.

I know that hearing those words from me would’ve twisted every single thing that would happen in the future into positive. I know that if I said those words to her just once, I wouldn’t be standing at the end of a line to see her in a cold, dark mahogany coffin.

Zayn is standing in front of me, the rest of the guys already outside of the church. He looks at me as he takes one last glance. He gives me a gaze reading, “You need me, and I’ll be outside.” I nod to him, walking forward after Zayn is outside.

My stomach tightens when I see Brielle’s dark hair is in wavy locks over one shoulder. I can visualize her bright blue eyes. Her favorite dress—the only one she’d wear—is looking as beautiful as ever on her: a dark silver, pleated, puffball dress falling just above her knees. Black, open toed high heels are on her feet. They have her hands locked in each other, resting on her stomach, hiding her wrists.

I purse my lips. “Show how strong you were for so long, love,” I whisper to her, unwrapping her fingers, flipping over her arms, and setting them on either side of her body. “There you are.” I examine the scars on her wrists closely. They slash all the way across, and I notice a few fairly new cuts.

I sigh, trying not to cry now. It’s too late for that. Crying won’t help, and showing myself crying in front of the press that’s waiting outside won’t do me any good. I force a smile, running my fingers down her face. “You were far too strong for far too long, Bri. I just wish you would’ve straight forward told me. You know me, babe. I can’t take a hint to save my life.”

I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “I keep waiting to wake up from this nightmare, Brielle. But I know I won’t, which is absolutely horrible for me.” I take a shaky breath. “There are so many things I never told you, love. You’re beautiful and smart and funny and I love your smile and I love the way we could laugh together and I adore the way you’re so kind. You wouldn’t hurt anyone. You’ve never gone for revenge. And, Brielle, you’ve never slipped up like I have so many times. I know that you’re not perfect, but you sure as hell seem like it. You’ve never gotten drunk, hurt anyone’s feelings, I’ve never even heard you cuss. Brielle, you’re an angel and I know you are, babe. I always feel great around you and I want to be a better person. If you would’ve told me what you were going through, though, I wouldn’t be talking to a body in a coffin.”

I let out a soft chuckle. “I bet I seem crazy. Just rambling to you. But it feels great, talking to you so fearlessly again. And you will never be just a body in a coffin to me. You’ll always be Brielle, who fought to keep herself alive for me—the boy who never paid attention—when one day the whole world’s weight was just too much for her. I don’t blame you. I could never be angry with you for killing yourself, love. You had too much in your life and you couldn’t handle it. I get it. I just wish you would’ve told me…” I pull my hand away from her face, touching her wrists as I bend over her. “No one will ever hurt you now,” I whisper in her ear.

Charlotte Marx, Brielle’s best friend, touches my arm. “Niall, they need us to go outside so they can bury her.”

I nod. “Of course. Of course,” I murmur.

Char offers me her hand and I take it, stealing one last look at the coffin and Brielle. The candles on their stands are melting down quickly. A photo of her, Char, and I during some cold Ireland winter is in a frame above her coffin. And the coffin… my throat clenches. I can’t even think about the coffin.

We face the shouting press. I put on my sunglasses so they can’t see me on the verge of tears. When you’re famous, you can’t cry for anything or anyone.

One reporter gets me and Char is about to yell at them when I hold up my hand for her to stop. “What?” I ask quietly.

“Who is this girl, Niall?” She asks me softly, her fingers grazing my arm in sympathy.

“This girl being buried is my best friend, my first love, my angel, and my role model. This girl being buried is better than the rest of the population of the retched planet we call home. She was bullied and pushed around and she cut herself and her dad was abusive when I wasn’t around and her mum left when she was a little girl and she never had the best of friends except Charlotte here. She tried to tell me she was depressed but I looked beyond it. I was too stupid to see her hurting. This girl being buried has a story I hope you share with the world, because her story is too important to go unknown,” I respond.

“What’s her name?” The reporter questions.

“Her name is Brielle Adrian O’Riley. Her father is Kane O’Riley, and her mother is Wendy Smythe-O’Riley. Her best friend right here is Charlotte Marx. Use all of those names in this god damn article.”

The reporter unexpectedly wraps me in a hug. “Niall, I’m so sorry.”

I hug her back after a minute. “I’m sorry too.”