Drink to Remember, Smoke to Forget

4: Cause and Effect

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Somewhere not too far off from the edge of civilization, in a summer-dried forest, the only sound that could be heard were the screams of Harry Styles. Screams so vile, so thunderous, the very thoughts that ran through his mind were silenced by the sound. He could hardly even remember his name, let alone process the pain he was in. To Harry, it was as if he had somehow, by work of magic, transformed into a laboratory frog, helpless and left for dead on a dissection table. It felt as if every single one of his limbs was bound to the ground by thick phantom needles, and his guts and innards were poked and prodded at by a giant invisible being.

Tears fell from Harry's eyes, their salty streams pooling into his mouth as he twitched and screamed with each new phantom pull. It was much too large a pain, one Harry had never experienced before in his life. And though he wished for nothing more than to be knocked unconscious, Harry's eyes and brain refused to succumb to rest. He was forced instead to look at the damage his body was in.

Harry's arm, usually a shade of olive, rested limply beside his head, charred and bloody from the tips of his fingers down to the elbow. It was as if a candle had dripped its entire contents of red wax all over his skin, with dirt and dried leaves coated upon it.

Harry wanted to call for help, call for anyone, but he was suffering too much to command his lips to form any other sound than that of a cat's shriek. He couldn't even compel himself to raise his head and body off of the ground to look around for someone, anyone. Try after try, Harry strained his muscles to move, while salty sweat slithered down his face, grunts escaped his throat, and blood welled from newfound bite marks on his bottom lip. But it was no use. After so many failures and torturous shocks of pain from trying to lift his body, Harry could take no more and admitted defeat. Turning his head from side to side, Harry was hopeful he would see something, anything.

That's when he saw it.

In as little as he could see in the darkness of the woods, Harry could just make out the fallen body of a man not too far away. No, not just any man. It was the body of Louis Tomlinson.

"Teach," Harry stuttered through gritted teeth, seething blood and spit with each attempt of his name. "Teach."

Louis did not respond, but remained stiff and still on the leaf-covered ground before him. Harry could not even tell if Louis was breathing. All he could tell in the dimness of the rising sun was the annoying fact that Louis appeared to suffer less than he, with his tan skin unmarred with streaks of blood or scars. Even with all the pain and torture he felt, Harry mustered enough energy to roll his eyes. If Harry were honest, seeing Louis on that forest floor, undamaged and seemingly okay, made Harry hate him a little more. And, though it was not his direct intention, focusing his mind on how much he despised Louis actually numbed the pain he felt. At least for a couple of seconds.

"Somebody help me," Harry begged, his lips quivering uncontrollably. "Please, somebody, help me."

Harry groaned, and not as a result of the pain. There was no use for his words; No one was around to hear him. Given that he couldn't hear the sounds of music or drunken squeals in the distance, Harry knew that everyone else had already left. There was no Brad, no what' s-her-face, no Goose, and not any of his party guests around to help.

I'm all alone.

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It was early, just in the wake of a pink sunrise when Harry opened his eyes for what felt like the first time in centuries. He could hardly even open them at all, with globs of crust and "sleep," coating his eyelash line like an adhesive. He had to vigorously rub at his eyes for minutes on end after he awoke before he could even begin to see his wooded surroundings or the dreadful condition his body was in. Although Harry no longer felt physically in pain, save for a killer headache that encompassed the entirety of his brain, his body sure looked like it was.