Through The Dark || Harry Styles

3. LUCY

LUCY

I wave back towards the car where my mother sits, waiting for me to head inside my house and reluctantly granting my request to be alone for the first time in almost a week.

Coming home has recently become my least favourite thing to do. But, then again, so is leaving it. And showering. Eating. Speaking. Sleeping. Waking up.

I unlock the front door and close my eyes briefly before pushing it open. I've been at the funeral and my in-laws all day and although a colleague was nice enough to feed and walk Lola, I know she is going to be full of energy when she sees me.

Right on cue, my six-year-old pug comes bounding down the hallway, her little legs taking her as quickly as her ragged panting will let her and her natural affection drags a smile across my cheeks.

"Hi, Miss Lola," I say more cheerfully that anything that's come out of my mouth today, crouching down to catch her in my arms and scratch behind her ears.

"Were you a good girl for Mrs Stanhope?" I ask, standing back up and brushing the fur off my little black dress with a quick sweep of my palms.

She answers by running in circles on the spot.

I wonder if she can comprehend that Jake isn't here? Does she think he is on holiday, or away for work? Does she care? Or, is she happy just to be fed and walked and loved?

I should have asked Harry. He's a vet, he would know.

Making my way into the empty kitchen, Lola's smooshed face causes her to snort when she breathes and I can hear her trail close to my ankles. I open the cupboard and give her a treat before my eyes scan the shelves Mum has stocked with all my favourite foods.

Instead, I reach for a bottle of vodka.

I didn't eat a thing today and the measured part of me knows this isn't the answer to dealing with what's happened. But, as the valium wears off, I need to replace it with something else. And fast. The broken part of me tells the measured part to politely, 'fuck off.'

This little house used to be my favourite place on earth. Jake had bought it shortly after we had started dating and the majority of my warmest memories with him are embedded in the walls.

On the sofa is where we would binge-watch our favourite TV shows, eating pizza, as I cuddled close to Lola. In the bed is where he asked me to move in with him, whispering that it was the place he wanted me to wake up every day. In this kitchen is where we toasted our engagement with our families, our lives intertwining together, forever. By the dining table is where we pushed all the furniture aside to practice our wedding dance, the nerves starting to get to him. At the front door is where I saw the police at 3am last Wednesday, their faces sombre and my blood running cold as they told me Jake had died on impact when his car hit a tree.

Now, I hate being here. Everything reminds me of him, and yet the fear of that not happening anymore is so strong it almost makes me throw up. The thought of his absence tortures me so much that I can't bear even cleaning the coffee cup he discarded on the kitchen countertop.

His dirty dishes are all I have left.

I keep hoping I wake up from this shitty nightmare, or someone will knock on the door and tell me there has been a shocking case of mistaken identity and Jake will step up from behind them and run to me, his mouth on mine as he tells me how sorry he is for ever getting into that fucking car.

The sound of the bottle slamming down on to the kitchen counter makes me cringe and the pain I've been numbing all day comes flooding through my senses.