A Second Chance - A Larry Stylinson Fanfiction

Chapter 23

I know, you all hate me. I know, I'm late once again. I know, you all wish that I was consistent with my updates. I apologize on all three of those charges and present you with another chapter as a peace offering. It's long (not the longest) and I have thought long and hard about this chapter. I've rewritten a few parts and made it the best it can be. After this, there's only one more chapter then an epilogue. Hang on until the end, champs.

Enjoy(:

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Chapter 23

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Scowling at the mirror, I run my fingers through my fringe, frustrated that my stubborn hair isn't cooperating. The sleeves of my jumper begin sliding up my arms and at the first sight of a fading bruise, I rush to pull the sleeves back down, covering most of my hands as well as the peeking bruises. I look back up and meet my eyes in the mirror and think I'm not ready for this.

"It's times like these that I miss Eleanor the most," I say, tracing a finger along the cut by my eyebrow and ignoring the way Zayn stiffens at the name. "She would help me cover up all these cuts and bruises with her make up." I tilt my head and examine the darkest bruise on my face - my black eyes - that hasn't quite dulled to a brown green like the rest them. It still screams an ugly red purple, splotchy and disgusting. "How gay do you think Harry is?"

Zayn chokes on his water, coughing and sputtering, but I don't turn around to see if he's all right. I'm too distracted with my reflection.

"Come again?" Zayn gasps when he's finally pulled himself together.

I drag a finger over the nasty purple color under my eye as if I could rub it away though it still hurts to touch. As irritating as it is that my bruises still haven't faded completely, it's just plain frustrating that one of the worst is on my face and will be calling attention to itself more than if I was screaming I was jumped! into a megaphone.

"Do you think he's gay enough to have make up?"

Zayn doesn't have a chance to respond because there's a knock at the door then Liam lets himself in. I smirk at the way Zayn's face lights up upon seeing Liam. Oh yeah. He's totally smitten.

"Hey lads," Liam greets, holding onto the strap of his messenger bag that's wrapped around his torso. The first time I saw it, I asked Liam why he had a man purse and had received the most frightening glare from Zayn that stopped me from ever calling it a man purse again. Even though that's what it is.

"Got any make up, Liam?" I ask without turning from the mirror, now rubbing the side of my thumb along the edge of my black eye, wishing I could rub it off as if it was make up. "I bet you do," I continue, not pausing long enough for him to answer. "I bet you secretly love putting on make up when you're all alone. You pile it on and pretend you're Madonna." I turn my head now to meet Liam's eyes, his half smile firmly in place. "Am I close?"

Over the past two weeks, Liam's been around me so much, been the butt of my jokes so often that what I say doesn't affect him like it used to. If I had been saying this to him a month ago, Liam would have been blushing and blubbering as if someone had walked in on him actually made up like Madonna. Now, my jokes hardly faze him at all and he just rolls his eyes. "Spot on. You about ready to go?"

I turn back to the mirror and it's as if all my visible cuts and bruises expanded and darkened themselves in the two seconds I was looking away. It even seems like new bruises and cuts have formed themselves and I ache to scratch them all away.

It's been just over two weeks since the attack. I'm finally off my meds - well, most of them - and it's time to go back to my classes. So few people have seen the damage from the incident and it's an understatement to say that I'm nervous for the world to see me and all my broken glory. I can almost already feel the stares of my peers crawling along my skin, taking in the green bruise on the underside of my jaw, the dark cut on my lower lip, the even darker bruise that encompasses my entire left eye - which, thankfully, is not as swollen as it once was - the scar by my eyebrow, and the obvious weakness shining in my blue eyes,