Fucked up (1D)

The 17 year old Mary Jane Moore, lives a normal life - until on her 17th birthday, where her loving parents tragically dies in a car accident. The young man behind the opposing car survives - but he is no ordinary boy. What will happen when Mary Jane is forced to meet the "killer" of her parents? And what will happen to her after her parents death?

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8. Back again

I had been dreaming about this Harry Styles for the past days, and instead of the creepy nightmares with the occasional appearance of my parents, Harry's beautiful face kept popping up, and making my dreams bearable. The thought of the feeling of his hands around me, his head on my shoulder, and the feeling of his soft brown hair on my cheek made me calm down, and stop being so shaky. I opened my eyes, and the room was still dark. I sat up, as i put my hand on my wet forehead, wiping of the sweat. I tried to catch my breath, and relax, but my heart was pounding violently, and even though the dream hadn't been bad, I had to get my adrenaline to slow down. The only medicine I knew for that, were in my fathers study. I stood up, careful not to trip back into bed, as I walked across the room, and out onto the dark apartment. The only source of light, were the streetlights, and the big windows, facing Big Ben. I stood there and admired the view for a few minutes, as I remembered the good times with my father and mother, sitting in the big white leather couches, blankets wrapped around us, and the rain pouring down outside. I remembered my mothers uplit face, and my fathers firm grip around my mothers shoulders, while I sat between them, admiring the dark streets, cars splashing water everywhere. I had never seen anything more beautiful.

I swallowed, as I for the first time of my life wished it would start raining, so I could sit down and admire the view until the sun came out. I shook my head, trying to not bring myself to tears, as I tiptoed across the living room, over to the big double-doors, so weirdly out of place in the modern condo. The dark wood was standing tall against the white, and created this weird contrast of old in the white-polished room. I hadn't been in the study since I was four, and my father had found me drinking some of his vodka, at night, because I couldn't reach the sink. I took a deep breath, as I fumbled for the door-knob in the dark, finding it, and feeling the cold, smooth texture of the metal in my hand. I quietly turned it, knowing that the hinges creaked at the slightest touch, and well aware of the risk of Kylie hearing me, when the door silently popped open, like the cap of a soda. It gave a small "Click," and I stepped into the darkest room in the house. The room was the complete opposite of any other rooms in this house - dark, small, and filled with dark-wood made things. On three of the walls, tall book-cases were standing majestically, waiting to be read and learnt from. Above the desk, there was a window. The big curtains were closed and the room went undisturbed by the outside, making it pitch black. On top of the desk, several thick dusty books were stacked, and papers, were loosely lying scattered on the floor. Some with quotes, others with drawings of everything from me, to my mother, to the sun setting behind the water...

I sighed, as I carefully stepped into the sea of secrets my father had kept in here since I was very young. I tried to avoid the papers on the floor, not wanting to rupture anything my father had ever made, as I crossed the little room, while I breathed in the smell of my him. I looked for the little fridge, knowing he kept all his liquors in there. My hands were searching the emptiness, and I finally found the cold white magnetic metal. I opened the fridge, the cold air blowing over my naked body, and the light blinding me, coming so suddenly. I took the first bottle of vodka I could find, and packed it underneath my arm, the cold glass giving me chills. Then I took a bottle of scotch, and packed it under my other arm. To top it all off, I picked up a Cognac, and carried it all to my room.

Her blonde hair was hanging damp down her sweaty face, trailing the lines of her jaw, and all the way down over her boobs. Her small naked body was lying, shaking on the floor, as the tears were flowing down her cheeks, onto the white furry carpet, leaving red marks from the picking in her hands. The stinge of alcohol was hovering above her, and she was unmistakingly drunk. Closing her eyes, opening them, closing, opening, constantly blinking, trying to stay alive. She felt the need to scream - she felt the need to shout, to cry, to live, to die. She felt the need to hug someone; she felt the need to hit them. She was lonely. She was social. She was dead, she was alive. She was a walking body, now lying craddled up against the wall, shaking;

A broken soul, only waiting for her savior.

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