Stockholm Syndrome [a Harry Styles fanfiction]

Chapter Two

HARRY:

So, following my dreadful arrival to my new home I noticed something. The man that had tackled me to the ground & initially brought me here was not the same man holding me captive. This man was thin. So thin I swear I could make out the intents of his bones poking out from underneath his pale skin. So given that, I tried not to stare too long. Instead I looked to my hands, tracing the tattoos printed across my wrists. I had wanted to ask so many questions. ie: What in the hell was I doing here, being held hostage? & for what? What's your motive?

I wanted to ask all of these things; the words just never came out.

So each time he stepped through the doorway I stared down, still tracing the tattoos that had been there, marked on my skin for almost a year now. They hadn't gotten any more interesting - especially in the last few hours, but just the thought of catching this man's gaze sent a set of shivers down my spine.

& this man-swap I was talking about earlier only made my life that much more difficult. That & the media's. The media was currently searching for said bulky man in a ski mask, but that lead would only bring them to a dead end. Unless he confessed, but I sincerely doubted he would. & no, that's not me being pessimistic. It's me being real & honest. The skinny ginger-haired man had to have known what he was doing. If he didn't, he wouldn't waste his time kidnapping a well-known 'boybandee' about to drop an album.

The first time he showed his face he brought me a tray of food. Nothing special. Just an apple & what looked to be some kind of soup. I ate it reluctantly & surprisingly, it wasn't half bad.

But the second time he only took a look around the room. Then at me. My eyes met his for the first time then. They were green, but they looked odd on him. His sunken in facial features made the green look almost swampy. I figured he must've only been checking up on me, because before I could even fully register his presence he was slamming the door behind him, leaving me alone to tend back to my duty of staring at the ceiling. He came in to make sure I was still there. That I hadn't found a way to escape. You are certainly giving me far too much credit, old man.

But, like myself, he didn't speak. Matter of fact, he hardly even looked my way other times. I tried to convince myself there was a reason for that. That he was feeling guilty & he would send me on my way in no time - out of pure pity. I even conjured up a story - a fantasy that his daughter was just a fan eager to meet me. She must still be at school. I should be on my way soon.

I jiggled the door handle. Trying to pry the damn thing open. It was still locked - locked from the outside. I slumped down on the floor, kicking at the door. "Hey!" I called. "Do you wanna try & tell me what I'm doing here?" I tried it every time after the man left, but he never did seem to forget to lock it. What would I do if he had anyway? Run downstairs into the family room? Expose myself? He'd send me straight back up to my glorious little cell.

Another thing, he swiped me of my phone. So the only contact I had to the outside world was the little TV in the corner of the room. I always had it on, terrified of the silence that loomed over the quite room when it wasn't playing a rerun of some stupid sitcom. I needed some kind of background noise to block out the thoughts coursing through my head. Yes, I was terrified. More so. I was scared shitless. But again, what on earth could I do? I saw my face on the news, so I knew they were looking for me. I guess I'd just have to wait it out. They'd find me. Eventually.

The door swung open then. My heart jolted, waiting for the oddly-scary man with the swamp-like eyes. But he never came. Instead in came a girl relatively my age. She was short & fair with long strawberry blonde hair that fell just above the hem of her skirt. She was certainly much easier on the eyes than the man. She was beautiful.