"Drugs, sex, and sun salutations."
Harry Styles thought he would never make it big, but that all changed when he ran into public relations manager, Celestial Gray. With long lists of problems on both sides and an unusual duo, the two never imagin...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
AMERICAN WOMAN chapter two january 22, 1975
The Magnolia Apartment Block not too far from Finnegan's Bar boasts a few things. None were particularly good things, but the occupants sure boasted about them. It was decrepit, some old tenement made in the 50s with the intention of housing people whose living situations prior had been dire and for a moment it did a good job of that; There used to be a communal garden to grow vegetables, a park for the children of residents to play - there were murals and it used to be quite a pleasant place. Magnolia, or as Harry so bitterly dubbed it, Maggy, doesn't deal pleasantries anymore.
The communal gardens are a thing of the past, the playground's decrepit and it's a place that was left to waste away just as much as it's residents had. The place reeked of cigarettes, dried piss and booze, there was rarely ever a night where somebody wasn't having a shouting match in the apartment next, above or below Harry's own, the taps barely worked and there was a roach infestation in the hallway of the second floor.
When he moved in, he was of the belief that it'd be temporary housing before he made it big, that it'd be a mere anecdote as he waltzes around in finery and told tales of his life before the stardom. He was three years down the line and before his countenance with Celest he doubted if he'd ever get out of there, if he'd so much as scrape by and attain a normal life, let alone a spectacular, star studded one found only on tv screens or grandiose daydreams.
He ambled up from his bed, his gaze meeting the yellowing wallpaper that ebbs from the grimey walls, the malignant odor of the lives that lived beyond his own came in from the bedroom window that remained ajar to stop it from being so muggy. His gaze was bleary, his movements taken over with a malaise of tiredness. His mind fixated upon the strange woman from the night before and her enticing proposition, and he was half wondering if she was a drunken fool or the real deal; unsure about the validity of just about anything in LA.
It was a city founded on half truths and fantasies, the people of Los Angeles sustained by their own self absorption and obsession, the lust for fame and adoration hung overhead like a bitter fog, clouding the minds of all who inhabit the city and live for its culture. There is no glitz and glamour to the life he leads there, no glory, but certainly gore.
Harry began to make his way toward the small kitchen, barely big enough for himself to squeeze by. The dishes that were askew in his sink were piled high from his neglect to do them, and became nothing more than a piece of his apartment. He paid no attention to just how high they were or how badly they needed to be done.
"I should get a tattoo," He thought aimlessly as he tried to think of ways to distract his mind from the one thing that wouldn't let go of the grasp of his heart. "No, I should call her."
