Teenage Waste [Harry Styles AU]

Three

Annabella.

It was the drainage river used by the industrial warehouses in the neighborhood, with the water gushing over plant life and natural rocks that were incorporated into it. The water was clear, and from what I understood, clean. That's why I had no problem plunging into it, trying to make my way through its density as quick as I could without the goons catching up to me. I could hear someone screaming in what sounded like pain, and words of encouragement from the voices in my head. The mud squished beneath my shoes as I frantically made my way across, praying that I was able to splash through the water faster than they could. The only way up onto the main pathway was a dirt ramp, and that's exactly where I needed to go. I could circle back and get to everyone, lead them on a wild goose chase to ensure my safety. My hair clung to my back in a wet heap of a ponytail as I struggled my way through the water, my converse finally making the wet slapping noise as they made contact with the concrete underneath the shallower water. I finally had traction, and with one glance back, I was sprinting as quickly as I could, the USB drive clutched tightly in my closed fist. 

I shot up from my bed, the sheets clinging to my sweaty skin and constricting my breathing. I didn't know what had been going on in my dream, only that someone was being tortured, and if I didn't get the USB drive to whoever was torturing them, the poor bastard wouldn't live to see another day. My heart ached at the thought, as captivity was one of the worst forms of torture for all involved. It put extreme amounts of pressure on the people trying to gather everything that the kidnappers requested, and extreme amounts of pain on the ones that had been kidnapped. I hadn't been fully aware in my dream long enough to find out who I was trying to save, or who I was trying to save them from. 

Pulling the sticky sheets off of me, I threw them back and stepped onto the carpet, hurrying down the small flight of stairs and into the kitchen. The storm outside raged on, branches tapping on the window pane and the wind howling at me to open up and allow it to go on a rampage through my home. My father had arrived home late, the evidence in the kitchen suggested that. There was a coffee mug sat by the coffee maker, both extremely cold and half full, and a newspaper that was still sopping wet sprawled out on the dining room table. The ink was leaking onto the mahogany, and I had to spring forward and peel the paper from the wood in order to prevent serious damage to the table. After dumping the old coffee out and rinsing out his mug, I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, still trying to catch my breath after the dream I had just had. 

It wasn't that it was a scary dream-- by no means was I scared of running from people with guns -- but it was the fact that someone was screaming in pain, that someone was dependent on me for survival. That had never been a real factor in my life. No one had never needed me in order for them to keep living, not even my dad. We both agreed a long time ago that if one of us should die, we'd move on as quickly as possible to save ourselves the pain. It wouldn't be nice to look down and see the heartbreak we had so desperately tried to avoid. Granted, we still loved each other dearly, but knowing that everyday there was a chance one of us wouldn't go home....well, it trained our emotions mighty quick. Now that I wasn't working for the department anymore, my dad didn't have to worry about keeping his promise to me as much as I had to worry about keeping my promise to him. He was the one that was always in danger, not me. 

I took a sip of my water, my fingertips curling around the cool surface that was our granite countertop. My dad hadn't been home soon enough for me to ask him what the boys had meant, about Larissa needing payment. What could my dad have possibly asked Larissa for that required payment? Why was he even working for her in the first place? 

My mother used to tell me that my mind was dangerous, that I asked too many questions that no one had the answers to. Whenver I asked her what it meant to have a dangerous mind, she would just respond with a simple, 'ask your father'. He didn't tell me until I was fifteen years old-- three years ago. He said that my questioning everything led to trouble not only within the department (which I assumed was part of the reason he didn't want me being an analyst anymore) but with the people they were trying to catch. If, for some reason, they caught me and were holding me captive, my incessant questioning would only piss them off and cause them to grow sour with me, ultimately resulting in my demise.