A Taste [H.S Fanfiction]

Tequila Kiss

Sometimes a man grows tired of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His back nearly breaking under the pressures of society and the impermanence of youth. It's enough to make anyone feel even just a little insane.

Though for Harry Styles, he knew he deserved everything the world had to throw at him. This was the price he had to pay for the work that he did.

Don't get it wrong. He was very proud of it. The bodies he left behind, posed and placed, photographed for safe keeping. They were his prized possessions, his life's work. No one was as clever, no one was as innovative as he was. He thought outside of the box. And for that, the price he had to pay was steep.

It had been 366 days, 22 minutes and 13 seconds since he had been caught, fleeing the scene of his last artwork. Dubbed 'The Portrait Killer', for his elaborately staged crime scenes, the media had, had a field day with the story. How could a twenty six year old grad student from Holmes Chapel, become such a deviant. And he loved it, the attention was a nice stroke to his ego.

And then it was gone.

And he was alone.

And he hated every second of it.

His fingers twitched, his throat was dry, his heart yearned for more. He had no visitors, save for his twit of a Lawyer, who came once a week to talk about appeals and other things he could care less about. Once they realized he wasn't going to be much trouble, they allowed him to have all the pencils and sketchbooks he could want. The sketchbook in his cell, holding pictures of bodies, posed in intricate and interesting ways, but it wasn't enough. He had to be hands on. He had to watch the light leave their eyes. He had to taste their last breath. And then. Then he had to make them his art.

The only constant in his life now was the loneliness. The fucking loneliness that seeped into his bones and rotted him from the inside out.

They asked him why he's done what he'd done. What had been the trigger? He had a fairly decent childhood, save for his parents divorce when he was seven. He had loving parents, a doting older sister. No one could understand, and he had stopped trying to years ago. It was as much a part of him as breathing. It was a necessity. His art was his reason for being.

So here he was, lying in his cell and practicing. It was a game he played often as a child, in hopes of keeping the monsters away. Every night he slowed his breathing, slowed his heartbeat. He's read about monks who could stop their heart beats all together. That was when he got the idea. He wondered if he could slow his heart down. Slow it down enough to fool the guards, the nurses, the doctor. If he could make them think he was dead, he would be free.

        "I just can't find it." Ava said, taking a sip of her wine. Deena, her best friend and roommate shook her head, taking a bite of pizza. It was Friday night, and Friday night was always girl's night, which meant wine, take out and Ryan Gosling movies.

"You've  just got a bit of writer's block. You'll get past it." Ava rolled her eyes, looking back at the tv. They were watching The Notebook and Noah was about to kill himself just to get a date with Ally.

"The problems no one talks about when you're a writer." Deena chuckled.

"They talk about it. You just don't listen." She turned, facing her friend full on now. "You'll find inspiration again. You just need a muse." Ava raised an eyebrow.

"A muse?"

"Doesn't every artist have one?" Ava sighed, shrugging her shoulders. Forty thousand dollars in debt, for a degree she had hoped would make her a full time writer. There was something about writing her emotions and feelings down that felt honest, true. It's what made her fall in love with writing in the first place. The vulnerability of it all. But lately the writer's block had hit her heavy. There was a numbness in her, no amount of romance movies or love songs could break her out of. She was in a rut. A deep dark hole, and she was afraid it would never end.