Deranged with the urge to kill. Harry Styles can't control these thoughts. For him, its just that; thoughts. He has never acted on these impulses, and tries to resist the urge to think about it. Lately, Harry's lack of emotion and care for people has him boarding on Psychopathic behaviour, and murderous tendencies. That is, until he meets Allison Harmon, a bartender at the new Point night club down town.


1. One

In, out, Harry... that's all you need to do. Breathe...

A cool breeze blasted towards me, making the leaves on the ground tumble. I glanced up, my coat collar shifting slightly. The night engulfed the street with force, making bright neon lights turn on and flash. Through my eyes, every now and then, time slowed down and I noticed things more. I looked down at the pavement, staring at my shoes as I walked.

Left, right, left, right...

I glanced up for a second, and my eyes locked onto a woman. Automatically, a tug deep inside me started to rise to the surface. I tried to push it down, but it bubbled and boiled and rose. The woman walked alone, her hands wrapped around her loosely because of the cold. I placed my hands into my jean pockets and walked towards her. She was standing outside of a bar, leaning against it's brick walls, a cigarette in hand. 

  "You alright?" I asked, my voice deep. The woman looked up, her bright blue eyes shining in the fluorescent pink light above us. My hands twitched in my jeans. 

I just want to--

 "I'm fine, thanks." The tone in her voice drifted towards frightened, and I caught myself leaning closer. The woman took another puff of her cigarette, and stood up, pushing herself off the wall. "I have to get back to my boyfriend." A common excuse. I nodded, and starting walking again, leaving the woman behind. My posture slouched and my feet stumbled. My flat was just down the street. I could make it, couldn't I? 

Don't make eye contact, Harry. Keep looking at your shoes...

I walked down an alley way to reach my flat door. It was damp, the recent rain creating puddles down the middle of the cobblestone. A lone light hung above a door, about midway down. I reached it, and pushed it open, making the door creak. A small hallway greeted me, with a staircase at the end. The dim light outside cast a yellow hue on the already yellow walls. As I walked up the stairs, and turned left towards my flat, the lady across the hall spilled out of her dark, gloomy flat to confront me. I could hear her heavy breathing, her age making squelching noises as her mouth closed. 

  "Excuse me, Mr, but you left the light on downstairs." She cooed. 

I pulled my keys out and faced her, my slouched shoulders heavy from the coat. "It's meant to be left on, otherwise no one would see where they are going. People could be lurking out there, waiting..." I shook my head.

Get that out of your head, Harry. Out.

  "We need it off, Laura said." 

  "Tell Laura she can do it herself," I growled, spinning on my heel. I walked up to my wooden door, my keys in hand. The lady mumbled something I couldn't understand, the squelching that her mouth made blocked the words from reaching my ears. I pushed my door open and quickly stepped inside, shutting the door with force behind me. 

My flat was dark and damp. The shitty roof leaked sometimes when a downpour happened, and it took days to dry it up. The walls were bare and white, slight dirt marks outlined the previous owner's photos. I didn't have much furniture, the two expensive pieces being my bed and my fridge. It wasn't much, but it was home. In all of my 3 years living here, I have gathered just enough knick knacks to make this place homey. I didn't have a job. Well I did have one a while back, but after they shut down, I have been jobless and my rent is overdue. I shrugged off my coat and left it on the floor.

I stalked the hallway towards the kitchen -- if you could call it that -- and pulled open a drawer. The dim lighting cast a shade of blue onto the kitchen knives I was gazing at. I blinked, shook my head and slammed the drawer shut. 

God damn it Harry!

I stood up and made my way to the fridge, hoping to satisfy the empty hole in my stomach. But it never could. I've tried, so many times. I've tried overeating and not eating, I've tried staying up and reading. I've even tried watching all of the crime and murder shows on T.V. Nothing satisfies it. The fridge light shone onto my clothes; my red and black flannel covered a black tee. Inside the fridge, a jug of water and two apples sat side by side. I took the jug and an apple and closed the fridge door behind me. I placed the apple on the bench and opened the jug, tipping its contents into my open mouth. Cold water rushed into my mouth and some spilt and started running down my chin. I swallowed, and grabbed the apple. I walked into the lounge room and sat on the empty floor, and turned the T.V on. Old re-runs of murder mystery shows were on. 

The screen flashed red, a mangled female body was found on the bathroom tiles. My stomach flipped. Two male investigators crouched down, and examined it.

  "Two slash wounds here and here," the darker male stated. My heart started to race. "And are those strangle marks?"

The camera zoomed up onto the body's neck, the fresh purple bruises shone brilliantly against her pale grey complexion. The second male stood up and started to walk around the small bathroom. He ran his gloved hand over bloody hand prints on the wall. I cleared my throat. I started to imagine what it would have been like to be the murderer, strangling the woman until she couldn't breathe, and--

It's just a feeling, Harry, you can't control it... don't act on it.

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