R O O M 1 9 7 // Harry Styles & Louis Tomlinson Edition

One

~Sunday 18th December 2016~

15:53 pm

Harry - a scruffy-haired, 22-year-old boy - sits on the cold floor of his living room, his shoulder leaning against the dark oak dresser that his older sister had purchased years ago, when she first bought this one bedroom apartment. Her university graduation photograph lays in it's smashed frame beside Harry's leg. A half-empty bottle of dark liquor balances in between his coarse fingertips, tilting on the edge of spilling over.

Chicago was supposed to be a fresh start for Gemma and her younger brother. A brand new beginning for the siblings, away from England and away from their problems - Harry's problems. Gemma had tried her very hardest to help her brother with his alcohol addiction, signing him up to a local support group and letting him stay on her couch rent-free. The stiff collar of Harry's white dress shirt rubs against his Adam's apple, causing an irritable friction, as he pours more alcohol into his mouth, and it's clear that not even his smart and sensible sister could solve this problem. He can't help but feel guilty, on an afternoon like this. All Harry can do is drink.

He has felt this crippling guilt ever since the night cancer stole his father away when he was only 13 years old. Harry and his dad had never got along, and as soon as Mr Styles passed away, Harry had blamed himself for their strained relationship, becoming destructive and angry - building walls around himself. When he turned 18, he became gentler, treating people better than he had in the past. But, those walls still remained, as he isolated himself emotionally from everyone, letting alcohol become his companion.
The seeds of Harry's alcohol abuse were planted the night his father died, but he never intended for the tree that came from that seed to grow so large and take up so much space. He hated the sour taste of his first alcoholic drink, spitting it out, before eventually trying again. And very soon after that, it had become his one and only coping mechanism. The pain of addiction lingers over him like a dark, rumbling thundercloud, ready to rain down on him.

More alcohol floods Harry's liver, a bitter taste starting to linger on his cracked lips, as he sweeps his finger over the broken photograph of Gemma, tracing the angle of her face. A sharp edge in the glass nips at Harry's skin, creating a patch of blood at the surface of his fingertip. He does not feel anything though, just numbness. The glories of alcohol. Droplets of blood drip away, landing on the glass of the photo. The blood pools at the tear and seeps into his flesh, dying his skin a deep ruby.
Gemma had been his motivator for so long. It took four phone calls from his mother to wake Harry this morning. He pushed himself out of the tangled bed covers and got dressed in this horribly tight suit only to fall back here two hours later. His family didn't appreciate his hungover state at today's event, so they removed him from the building soon after he had arrived, with his tail between his legs.

Harry considers calling his mother for a moment, but when he realises that she's probably already on a plane back to England, he looks through his text messages instead. His vision is clouded with intoxication, but he can see well enough to know that Gemma still hasn't replied to his last message - his last seven messages. At this point, Harry should just give up. She won't reply. She can't reply.
She had left Chicago two weeks ago because of him, and she wouldn't be coming back. Regardless, Harry holds onto the hope that one day she'll reply or even call. He drops his phone on the floor, as he lets his head drop backwards against the wall with a hard thump. Alcohol will fix his wounds.

The ringing of his phone startles Harry and he lifts his head. His skull throbs with muted agony as he reaches for his mobile phone again, hoping that it's his mother. Or maybe even Gemma, but that's impossible. Without checking who it is, Harry presses firmly down on the green button, but instead of hearing his sister's sweet tone, Harry hears the condescending voice of his boss Mr Peckham bark through the speaker.
Harry contemplates ending the call this very second, but a voice in his head tells him that his job at The Magnolia Hotel is his one and only chance. Mr Peckham, a balding, overweight man with a body odour problem, asks him to come in for a few hours to help. Harry knows that he will not be paid for these extra hours, but that same guiding voice - Gemma's voice - tells him to do it anyway. He can picture her now, her arms crossed against her chest, her eyebrows raised in authority, forever the bossy older sister. After looking at the photograph of Gemma for a moment - with the drops of his blood pooling between the cracks in the glass - Harry hauls himself off of the cold floor.

It takes him longer than usual to get dressed into his uniform, as alcohol swirls around his bloodstream. Ignoring the deep aroma of alcohol clinging to his tattooed skin and the strange mixture of mint toothpaste and liquor on his tongue, Harry leaves the empty bottle, cracked picture frame and crumpled suit all on the floor and exits the apartment, heading to the rooftop car lot to find his car. Once found, Harry's ancient red Volvo refuses to come to life, despite working fine this morning, faltering a dozen times as he fights to start the engine. Shit out of luck.
It had always been quite obvious that Gemma had gained the lucky genes between the two siblings, passing her school exams with flying colours and growing in her career quickly, as her baby brother did nothing but fall deeper into his addiction.
Harry slams the car door hard, and screams - literally screams - in frustration. His sister's voice rings inside his head again, and instead of walking back downstairs to the cold and empty apartment, Harry exits the building and runs in the direction of The Magnolia Hotel. He keeps a quick pace, his messy hair brushing across his face, obstructing his vision, and his tight uniform that he hates more than the job itself, leaving him with little space to breathe. Harry's finger continues to bleed slowly, but he ignores the cold numbness in his fingertip as he arrives at work.

The Magnolia Hotel is a supposedly grand building, but look hard enough and you can find the cracks beneath. Mould is hidden by the outrageous furniture in the small lobby, and a hideous red velvet wallpaper traces the walls of all 21 floors, in a failing attempt to appear dignified. Maybe that's why they accepted Harry's job application. He's an expert at hiding his flaws too. Gordon Emmett Peckham, with his angry red face matching the walls, grumbles as Harry walks through the glass doors.
"Finally!" He yells, approaching Harry. "Fucking hell, Styles. What took you so long?!" He adds, not bothering to censor his language, despite the amount of guests circling the lobby. Harry just shrugs his shoulders, hiding his alcohol breath, as Peckham leads him towards the front desk. "A local businessman is staying at The Magnolia for a couple of months and he's requested his own personal assistant to tidy and keep on top of his room." Peckham explains, leaning over the old computer at the desk. "No-one else is free to do it, Styles. So, I have no other choice than to put you up to the job...unfortunately." He leads his youngest employee to the stairs of the hotel, pushing him up onto the first step in an act of authority. "The elevator is broken until further notice, so take the stairs and make it quick!" Peckham adds.

Harry slowly climbs a couple of steps, before turning back to his boss.
"What room, sir?" He asks.
"Room 197." Peckham answers immediately, a slight annoyance hanging off his voice. "Oh...and Styles?" He asks after Harry scales a few more steps. "Don't fuck this one up, ok buddy?!" The terse old man adds, with a mocking sense of friendship towards Harry.
Room 197 is one of the ten 'luxury' rooms located on the twenty-first floor, the room adjacent to the broken lift. By the time Harry arrives on the correct floor, he is out of breath and his ugly red, black and white uniform is drenched in sweat. Luckily, the monumental run up all twenty flights of stairs has sobered him up a bit.
Harry blows against his palm to check his breath once more, as he reaches Room 197, before straightening out his uniform and inhaling a large breath, out of nerves.

Once, calm - or as close to calm as he is capable of - Harry puts his hand in a fist, ignoring his blood-stained finger, and knocks lightly on the pristine white door...

Chapter Image by @teletubbielouis on Instagram