21 Murders | Harry Styles AU (discontinued)

II. Aberrant

aberrant (adjective): departing from an accepted standard; markedly different from an accepted normality

Noelle's POV

Three days had slowly gone by after the young officer had come into my hospital room and spoken with me about what had happened, but I couldn't help but continuously dwell on the matter as if it were stuck on my mind. I was the first – and only – one of sixteen girls who had been attacked by this psychopath serial murderer to live, and along with this recognition, I couldn't help but succumb to survivor's guilt.

To my misfortune, the nurses hadn't let me out of the room since the mishap began. I was told that my body was found in the early morning hours by a jogger and brought in unconscious from severe blood loss and forced trauma to my head. I still had remnants of a headache lingering behind my eyebrows, a dull throbbing that never ceased. A cloth bandage had been placed around my forehead like a sweatband, covering the stitches on my hairline from getting wet or touched by germs. And as much as I begged to see the man who brought me in and saved my life, no one would tell me his – or her – name, or how I could thank him.

I had grown accustomed to living in my own head, equally pushing away memories as much as exploiting them. I couldn't get what the officer said out of my mind. I needed to relive everything that happened, but frankly; I was too scared to fully throw myself back into the scene. Swallowing down the guilt, I picked and prodded at the flimsy hospital mattress with my blunt fingernails.

There was nothing I could really do to entertain myself. Television and social media was off limits. My mother worked during the day and visiting hours were over by the time she'd be able to stop by. The nurses were busy and I didn't want to bother them with boring conversation, too worried that I'd keep them from getting their work done. Not only did I have a suspicious feeling that everyone around me knew something I hadn't been told, but that they were keeping it from me on purpose.

"Your polite escort will be here in a few minutes," the polite nurse informed me, taking the thin hospital gown from my outstretched arms as I nodded in appreciation. After four days of hospital gowns, I was more than ready to retire to my comfortable clothing.

"Oh," I spoke up, gathering the nurse's attention before she could flee the room. "Why do I need a police escort? Isn't the station only down the road?" The information - or lack, thereof - that they gave me was sparse and I still had a hard time remembering small details.

"Officer's orders," she replied sweetly, shrugging unknowingly; after which she exited the room. I couldn't help but wonder if said officer was the one who had paid me a visit; Officer Styles, I believed he called himself.

I nodded to myself and sat down on the naked bed, staring down at my fumbling thumbs. It was easier to go along with what they said rather than question it, anyway. Turning my head to glance out the expansive window, I let out a small sigh and waited for the return of my nurse.

Only a few minutes later a woman in a professional uniform entered my room, not bothering to knock. Her hair was down over her shoulders and she had sugarplum cheekbones; sharp browns eyes and caramel-colored hair. Resting her hand on her gun and the other reaching for my forearm, she informed, "I'm here to take you in."

I blinked, taken back by her rude tone. "Okay."

The badge on her navy uniform was labeled Detective Trinston and what with the way she stared at me, I must've been either too slow or let my eyes linger too long for her schedule. "Follow me," she demanded, ushering us out the door.

I do as ordered, my body aching with each step I take. Her legs are lean and swift, taking us down the hall with record timing. I struggle to keep up, her grip on my arm overbearingly pinching my sensitively bruised skin. The rehab they began giving me had helped minutely, but that didn't mean the cuts and bruises felt any less painful.