21 Murders | Harry Styles AU (discontinued)

IV. Didactic

didactic (adjective): conveying information or moral instruction

Noelle's POV

I stare blankly at the roof above my head, the soft cushioned couch comforting my back as a lanky blanket falls just under my shoulders. It smells of a strong cologne and I can't help but effortlessly continue to smell the unnatural scent.

The balcony glass doors across the room are closed, but a subtle hint of moonlight creates a drawn out shine on the floor. I can't help but wonder how many nights this has happened and no one has realized its beauty.

Although this officer's apartment is very comfortable and homely, it still feels vacantly empty of any emotional connections like a house is supposed to uphold. There aren't any picture frames hung on the walls with family portraits - neither is there any nick-knacks lining the tops of furniture.

The empty remain of a broken home on clear display to my eyes.

A large puff of air falls from my lips, the dry skin cracking in the most uncomfortable way possible. It leads me to decipher out my activities; how is everyone around me acting toward the news of my attempted kidnap? I haven't fully gotten over reality either and it is times like this when I need someone to take my mind off of over-thinking situations and letting my stress get the better of me.

Insomnia seems to be my only acquaintance as I continue to think about college. I was lucky enough to get accepted with a full scholarship, for my family was never rich enough to afford a high-class school in the city.

People expect everyone in New York to live the life of luxury--and in a way--they are right, but there is also so much that they don't think of when they picture the beautiful city at night. My mother is a workaholic; always trying to ensure more hours and would always come home at nearly midnight with plans for more hours only a few hours away.

I blame this on my father; though we were a happy family, the broken remains of us scatter around us like a shattered mirror, reflecting our unique bond but also emphasizing just how baleful we truly were. My father is re-married; a woman who was few years younger than my mother catching his eyes remotely quick after finalizing the divorce.

My brother lives with him even though he is older than myself, and I haven't had contact with any of them since weeks before my incident. When the divorce happened, I was only ten, and at that time, we were still happily remote.

The judge let my parents decide on who got custody and the only agreement they could come up with was to each take a child, parting our family in half right down the center fold.

I was placed into the arms of my mother while she was waving goodbye to my only friend at the time. My father only smiled and waved, no regret on his face as I remember watching his future wife walk up beside him and pat his shoulder affectionately.

The sight burns holes in my eyes; not rendering a sorrowful flicker of hurt, but now a spiteful one.

I remember the relief and hurt and depression that my mother went to instead of me. On top of being stressed about the divorce, she told me that we needed a new start. Therefor, we moved deeper into the city and left the remains of the family behind in our past.

She works hard--I'll give her that--and she really does care and love me, but that has been buried under years of stress and worries that have now overcome us to our chins. I feel our connection slipping through my fingertips as I get older and the empty void for love and affection remains hollow.

The taste of blood in my mouth tells me that I have been gnawing on my bottom lip. Instincts kick in and I rub the faint blood away, causing a trail to mark on my fingers and most likely my chin. Deciding I needed to branch out a little anyway, I stand to my feet and lightly toss the blanket over the shoulder of the couch.