I scrolled down the Web page hot, angry tears stinging in my eyes as I looked at his face, his smiling, happy face. Did he even care any more? I asked myself. No, he doesn't I quickly told myself in reply inside my head. I'm just his stupid sister I continued to think, why would he even want to know me any more? He's bigger, better and famous he wouldn't even have time to think about his little sister. Harry is famous now and has his band, he doesn't need me - poor pathetic Annie Styles hanging about in his shadow.
I sighed to myself, scrolling down further seeing pictures of him with the rest of the band. Liam, Louis, Zayn and Niall. I'd learnt their names from looking at Harry's Facebook Page. Since the day dad chucked him out I've always checked it everyday. At first it was because I thought maybe he'd talk to me, but now two years on from then I've just lost hope of that happening and just visit his page when I feel lonely and wish that he wasn't famous and that he was still here with me, being a caring brother. I always wish he wasn't famous but I guess deep down I know what he's always wanted is to be in a band and that I'm happy he got his dream come true.
I just wish he didn't forget me. A text once in a while would be nice even if it's not much, but no he loses complete contact with me. If dad hadn't disproved then this wouldn't have happend and we would be together all happy, but he did disaprove and he did chuck him out, and now I've lost him. He's with his band, and I'm with a dad who curses his name everyday, so in other words I'm alone. Alone and hurting.
I don't think I should cry about it but I can't help it, looking at his face makes me feel angry, sad and all different mixed emotions which just cause the tears to spring up in my eyes. I shouldn't even be crying now. I wiped furiously at my tear stained cheeks and stinging eyes. Don't cry, stop crying, no more tears for now I chanted in my head taking a big breath and forcing the thoughts of him to the back of my mind.
I then tried to smile, slamming closed the lid of my laptop on his face and spinng round on my desk chair to look out across my small cramped room. I half laughed to myself at my tidiness and the way things were organised orderly and in some sort of very systematic way. It was just the way I liked it, everything had a place, I knew where things were so when I needed them I knew where to look to find whatever I was looking for.
The shelves above my bed had labels, all which were colour coded, and the different groups of things were helpfully sectioned off by the wooden vertical peices which had already been there when I bought it. On the shelf my collection of reading books were in alphabetical order according to authors first name. The tiny batch of medals and awards were polished and proudly set out so you could see them. My school excercise books, textbooks and folders were grouped according to subject, and each of those separate groups were labeled on the shelf. And anything, and everything else was labeled and sectioned according to my liking.
It was a little OCD but I don't think there's anything wrong with being organised, and I like my room the way it is in all it's systematic glory. Dad once told me that mum was like that too, and I smile at the thought of that every time I think of it. Of course I miss mum, but she died when I was just born so I didn't even meet her. All I remember is a soft, female voice, and a blurred face which I can't remember. I keep those memories of her in the back of my mind always, but sometimes I think that what I'm remembering could be any lady who talked to me when I was very young, but some how I know it's her. It's definitely my mum.
I only have one mirror in my room and that's fastened to the inside of my wardrobe door, so when I open it I can view myself in it. I don't like looking at myself it reminds me of how not pretty I am and how everyone else around me is ten times better looking than me. I wouldn't say I was insecure but I just take no pride in my appearance. Harry and me look alike but he looks loads more handsome than I look pretty.
Dad always said Harry looked exactly like mum but in boy form, and that all I got from her was the same hair colour and the curly waves in it. I have dad's green eyes, mouth, chin and nose apparently, and all Harry got from dad is the dimples he gets in his cheeks when he smiles. Fortunately I don't have dimples. Some would consider dimples cute, but I think boys suit them better than girls, so I like not having them.
"Annie!" yelled a voice catching me by surprise and nearly making me fall of my chair. The voice, which I now recognised to be my dads, shouted again from downstairs, and I sighed largely, before getting up.
I tottered down the steep set of steps down to the ground floor, and headed towards the direction of the yelling voice. "Coming dad" I called, getting annoyed at his impatient tone. I then walked into the lounge, where dad was standing looking angry and holding the phone.
"Take this" he shouted to me, even though I was only a few metres away and he chucked the phone in my direction. Luckily I caught it, giving him a questioning stare, but all he did was make a grumpy noise in reply and stalked from the room. I raised the phone to my ear gently, wondering who it was when a voice on the other end called "hey" suddenly and my knees gave way and I literally fell over, landing on the chair nearby.
"H-Harry" I murmured my voice shaking, as the sound of his breathing echoed in my ear.
"Is that you Annie?" he asked, his voice sounding deeper than I remembered.
I couldn't speak, gulping in air, and trying not to start to break down crying. "Are you okay?" he asked, sounding worried. "Are you still there?"
I nodded, then thinking myself stupid because I was on the phone and he couldn't see me. "Yes" I quickly replied, my voice quiet.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "How are you?" Harry asked, sounding a little like he didn't know what to say.
I didn't answer him at first, too many thoughts were whizzing through my head. "Why would you care?" I finally snapped, anger coursing through my veins.
Harry was making a noise on the other end of the line, and was about to answer when I talked over him. "Why are you even calling? What's the point of this?"
"Annie" he said my name sceptically, trying to carry on speaking but again I interrupted him.
"Why now? Why decide to actually acknowledge my existence?"
"A-Annie please, dad's already had a go at me, don't you start to. I just wanted to-" he muttered quickly, but I stopped him again.
"Harry why did you forget me?" I asked him, it was only softly, but it stopped his mutterings.
"I didn't" was his reply.
"You did" I snapped back.
I heard him sigh, clearing his throat again and staying quiet for a bit. "I'm sorry Annie. I'm so sorry, I just thought you shared dad's views and thoughts on me."
I took in a steadying gulp of air, trying to calm myself down. "I didn't, and don't."
"Good," he replied shortly, and then said again "I'm so sorry I didn't keep in touch. I just... had other things to do."
I suddenly felt angry again. "Yeah. I'm not important."
"No" he replied quickly, "no it's not like that."
"Yes it is" I told him and I realised I had started to cry. "You had them; correction you have them, and you don't need me. YOU DON'T CARE!"
"No Annie, I do care" he desperately tried to tell me.
I made to hang up, but he stopped me as he shouted in aggravation and in a sad sounding tone: "I'm sorry."
I took shuddering breaths in, listening to him on the other end of the line. I couldn't hang up, I wanted to, but I just couldn't. "I'm sorry" he repeated this time whispering into the phone. "I'm so sorry."
I listened to him sighing, and I closed my eyes, feeling tears slide down my face. "Sometimes sorry isn't enough" I murmured, and then I brought the phone away from my ear, pressing the hang up button. I sat there for a few moments, tear sliding down my face. Then I shot up from the seat, chucking the phone down in anger, and rushing from the room.
Tears flooded down my face as I ran up the stairs, and my breaths were coming out short and sharp. I kicked open my door, slamming it behind me and chucking myself down on the bed, sobbing into my pillows. Why did he even call?
Why did he say he is sorry, when he isn't?
Doe's he still care?
What doe's he even want?
Endless questions coursed through my head, none of them having answers. He said he was sorry, he said he cared, but really is that true, and why did he decide to call me anyway? He left me. He left me alone. Alone.