Devotion [h.s]

303

⚠️warning; gruesome content. there is some descriptive violence in this chapter and I'm warning anyone that might take offence to it to maybe just skim or not read it if you think it will be too much!💕

also over time kyle in my head always looked like noah centineo and erica always looked like margot robbie but kinda with harley quinn vibes idk LOL but I'm not officially saying that's who they're casted as. You can imagine who ever you like!:)

No perspective

He lost so much already, his body a small glimmer of corruption within a bloodbath. He had nothing left in himself but absolute remorse of every action he committed in life to get him to this point of hell. This type of sadness would follow Harry for the rest of his life he so undeservingly got to go on with. The miraculous form of self destruction would ache through his veins and stay dormant in his pulsing heart for eternity.

But Harry was so angry, angry at the world and letting this happen to the people the deserved so much more then him. But maybe being alive was his moral punishment, that he'd slowly get to watch the people around him die because of his life choices.

He started to think maybe he was the one that would live forever, but be alone with nothing but his regrets. Or that he was already dead, and this was hell.

When Harry bursted open the already broken library door, his blood was boiling to no greater temperature then before. His hands were hurting in stress, head pounding from a migraine that couldn't be fixed with a pill, he needed revenge.

His eyes perceiving the first look of the outside after being in that cold library for so long, and what he saw was destruction. There were dead bodies staggered around the street, ones more gruesome then others. It was a mix of Salvation and Malignant, one at a time all deceased in the cold cement in symbol of their lives being over. He turned his head down the road, seeing the main intersection where all the madness was happening before hand.

He saw people still fighting, but the numbers have dwindled. Large crowds of black leather and beige material were now just small groups here and there. The numbers were falling, but he still had work to do.

Harry Styles—the leader of Malignant, ran down the street in just his black shirt and black jeans. He had no weapon on him, his gun out of bullets. All he had was his hands and the hatred pulsating through his veins.

Without his jacket on his back, his mind told him he was not belonging to either side of the gangs. He wasn't Malignant, nor Salvation. He was just a friend, a father, a husband, and a son who wanted to inflict pure pain on the people that made him loose nearly everything.

And he didn't need bullets to do that.

As he ran, his heartbeat picked up rapidly. His jaw was clenched so hard it made his gums sore. All he could hear was the sounds of a pulsating thump and distance ringing deep within his ear drums. It was getting worse and worse the closer he got to people, taste of blood in his mouth.