You Wound Me, Styles

Gemma wasn't being specific when she commanded me to settle things with Harry. I thought she meant that he was home, that he was here in Holmes Chapel.

An emptiness knocked into my bones upon the information of Harry's absence.

"Your mom will be here shortly with your suitcase," Gemma said. "We called her up."

I nodded, half-listening, half-processing the current situation. Where the hell were we going? Especially this early.



After about a couple hours of driving, we were at an airport. Soon afterwards, we were on a flight. These happened almost as if they were on the sidelines, blurred by my peripherals, everything swishing past me beyond my pace.

My main focus was the replay of my last goodbye with Harry. I couldn't ever face him after what monstrous things I've done to him.

"Gemma," I murmured, nudging her awake.

"Hm?"

"Do you think Harry hates me?" I asked, quiet.

I reckoned she was still in mid-dream when she answered a scarce, "...mm, yeah, he does."

I slumped back into my recliner, fiddling with the plastic cup that I'd been refilling constantly for the past three hours of travelling above the clouds.

"Can I admit something?" I murmured once again.

"No one's stopping you," was Gemma's halfhearted reply, maybe partly saying it with chagrin.

"I hated Harry, too," I confessed. "I've hated him for a little while when he left Holmes Chapel for that X Factor show."

A weak smile bent the straightness of Gemma's pink lips. "That's because you missed him, Arabelle."

I was disappointed. "Oh."



It was night when we arrived at where One Direction performed a concert. I passed up the chance of seeing the five famous faces sing flamboyantly around some type of stage.

Instead, I isolated myself in the hotel room that Gemma booked specifically for me. Only me. It surprised me that my mom had pocket money to pay for all this extravagant nonsensical "suite".

Little intricate designs here, dainty little curlicues of vintage florals there. It was so feminine I could gag myself.

Then, there was a frightening unlocking of my door.

Two boys entered my bedroom; a drunken Harry was being propped up by a brown-haired, puppy faced dude.

"Is this room three-two-six?" puppy boy asked.

I bobbed my head yes without the ability to speak. Harry was here. Harry Styles was within three metres' reach.

"Gemma told me to drop off Harry here," puppy said. "Hm. Funny. Maybe she meant you'd take care of him?"

I nodded again, scrambling for words, but none left my lips.

"Alright, thank you, love." I didn't know puppies could address people as "love". I also didn't know puppies could look like humans.

With that said, he helped Harry sit down on the ground, and puppy left.

"Hi," Harry said with a silly grin. He was obviously drunk. "I'm Harry Styles."

"Hi, Harry. I know you. You know me, too, remember?"

"You're a cat," he said.

It was then when I realized that it was going to be a very long night. It was evident that being the pragmatic one here would be no help, so I played along.

"Yeah, I'm Mr. Whiskers," I smiled, hopefully not in a creepy way.

"But you're a feline female," he remarked, mixing up his words. Then he tried to point at me with an unsteady index finger. "I shouldn't call you 'mister'. I'd sound like a dick."

I blinked. "Oh. Thank you. That's very gentlemanly of you."

He flashed me a proud grin. "I try to be."

Something about the whole situation made me laugh, and that startled Harry.

"Why do you laugh like that?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"Like you're having hiccups." He was genuinely scared.

Frank and straight-forward were his words, and his observation was never put towards my notice before.

"I don't know, Harry," I fumed. "Why do you have four nipples?"

He chuckled a little too enthusiastically, clapping as if I just said something worth five million people's laughter.

"I have four nipples!" he screamed, smiling from ear to ear.

I was so tempted to record this on video, but I decided to be the mature one here. All of a sudden, Harry crawled towards me and carried me in his arms.

The bastard held my waist, my feet above, and my head almost headbutting the bed. He was holding me upside-down.

"Harry, put me down," I commanded calmly.

"Goodbye, pretty pussy," he said, and dropped me on the bed, where my neck hurt because I fell headfirst.

The bastard.