
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5258279.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band), Night_Changes_-_One_Direction_(Music_Video), Best
      Song_Ever_-_One_Direction_(Music_Video), Midnight_Memories_-_One
      Direction_(Music_Video)
  Relationship:
      Niall_Horan/Original_Female_Character(s), Harry_Styles/Louis_Tomlinson,
      Zayn_Malik/Original_Female_Character(s), Eleanor_Calder_&_Louis_Tomlinson
  Character:
      Niall_Horan, Harry_Styles, Louis_Tomlinson, Zayn_Malik, Original_Female
      Character(s), Original_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Drug_Use, Drug_Addiction, Drug_Abuse, Heroin
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-21 Chapters: 1/25 Words: 6967
****** Injecting the skies with honey ******
by justuntil
Summary
     Autumn Burns is a seventeen year old girl that lives with sinister
     intentions all around her. Instead of removing herself from these
     negative attitudes, she welcomes them. She part takes in the abuse of
     drugs and is deeply involved in a perverse relationship with an older
     man. Her bitterness expands graciously with every passing hour, and
     the conclusions of her own death constantly cross by her. One day in
     a pub, she is encountered with a being that challenges her world's
     melancholy. She does not know if that sudden sense of daylight
     peaking through is due to the way his vibes sing or due to his
     nurturing care-free nature. Maybe it is because she can sense the joy
     inside of him threatening her. Ever since that convoluted day, little
     Autumn has found herself a victim of a hazardous growing infatuation
     with him.
 
                           A Niall Horan Fan fiction
 
                                   Prologue
 
                                  For better
 
These blue eyes full of life are staring through you, and they are not even
making a dent. What am I to you? The fire you light for release or the dry
paint peeling from an old apartment building wall? I can be the heavy boots you
wear and the bar floor they step on. Just let my pupils hurt you; let my heart
eat you up completely and then I can be that for you. I promise on the blues
that have yet to fail us. It could be just you and I: my failures, and your
pain.
 
                                   For worse
 
There is fungus growing on the sides of the smile from where I attain my own
contentment. It is pitch black, and I'm waiting for the rain to transform into
a drizzle. Every day I would find myself talking to the molds. Why do you
choose to be so silly and so insignificant? Why did you choose to grow in a
place of artificial lights and corrupted intentions? I could never understand
why beautiful things choose to breathe in the scum polluted cities deposit. I
pick up all the fungi and throw it into the rain. “Turn into a little flower,”
I’d say, “and do not follow me.” You can try to make yourself believe you
belong to the rats and the black garbage bags in the night, but I couldn't
allow it. At least not while the blues are alive inside the both of us.
 
                        INJECTING THE SKIES WITH HONEY
                                        
                                 Chapter 1:  
                                        
           My feet become sore under the weight of my heavy leather boots. The
fact that I’ve been running for nearly half an hour doesn’t help the cause much
either. I’m not sure exactly why I had decided to begin running in the first
place. I was home an hour ago, sitting about sketching a picture of some dead
flowers in a cheap vase that has habituated my room for at least three months.
The petals were flaky and fragile, and most were lying on the carpets.  The
old-school television set in my room sits on the floor buzzing behind it all
like background music. The antennas all crooked and munched on, always give my
television a grainy look. It doesn’t matter anyway. I was never one for
television. The sounds of the English women selling the fitness videos’ voices
oozed me. I felt like someone was in the room with me, like I wasn’t alone.
            It was a peaceful night. I felt serenity dominate my limbs. My eyes
were nearly shut, and I felt drowsy, in the best way one could feel drowsy. I
was shading in the nearly picturesque sketch of the flowers, my eyes
concentrated on each detail and my pencil following with precision. I was
sitting at the center of my unmade bed with my legs folded, and my back aching
for it lacked any sort of support.
            “And one and two. And three and four.”
            There was a bunch of little eraser residue spread upon my sheets.
It kept making my bare legs itchy and had me constantly getting up to hit the
gummy specks away from the bed. I’d sit down again, not even considering
putting on pants. I wore no pants under my oversized hoodie that smelled like
cigarettes and rubbing alcohol. I had gotten used to the feeling of not wearing
pants. It is almost liberating. The sensation of jeans touching my legs has
almost become one of many very unpleasant things. Just as unpleasant as being
told by your art teacher that you’ll never be anything to anything. Just as
unpleasant as being sober with your thoughts one day after you had arrived home
from college. Just as unpleasant as hearing your mother have sex with a man
that is not your father. Just as unpleasant of having a mother that doesn’t
love you like she can love a stranger.
            “Five. Six. Seven and eight.”
            Behind the buzzing of the jittery British voices I could hear my
mother fucking. I could hear her fucking that fifty-something year old tea-
drinking, crooked-toothed, posh English bastard.  His hair’s all thinned out.
He wears supermarket trainers and you can hardly tell where his chin ends and
his neck starts. He always wears his pants two sizes too big. He’s a big man-
dork who loves Star Wars and constantly pushes his glasses back on his face
with one bony finger. Apart from his physical unpleasantness, which is weirdly
not what bothers me most about the man, he’s got this superiority complex, this
intense self-obligation of authorization. Perhaps he didn’t get enough
attention from his parents in the seventies; perhaps the big bullies at college
pushed him around and shoved crumpets up his ass or something.
            My mother is beautiful. Of course, I mean this in a physical sense.
She’s rotten in the inside. Her heart hardly pumps blood anymore and I always
imagine her insides gray or a sick green color. But she’s got a beautiful and
poetic presence. Her hair’s jets black, and her skin’s pale, like Snow White.
When I thought of the German tale, I always thought of her. Her face is soft
and ethereal. Her body is petite and thin, which is, unfortunately, the only
thing my genes grabbed from her person. She’s only thirty-six. I’ve never seen
such a beautiful woman as lonely as she, so lonely that she felt the need to
give everything to this middle-aged walking sandpaper.
            She’s evil. Everything about her is evil. Sometimes, when she locks
herself in her room at the man’s house, hours at a time, I think about spilling
gasoline all over the tile floors and tossing a flared match onto the floor. I
think about how she wouldn’t notice that the house was on fire until the
neighbors started screaming. I think about how her first instinct would be to
save her nude silk robe. Or maybe even her and the man’s fat orange cat Cali.
Everyone would stand outside with the coppers and the fire fighters looking
into the burnt house. The neighbors would be there as well sympathizing with
them. My mother would be clinging onto Cali, spaced out, out of it, per usual.
She’d look around suddenly and ask out loud, to no one specifically, “Autumn
wasn’t inside the house was she?”
            My fingers suddenly stopped working. I started staring at my
illustration. They are dead flowers, flowers that are ready to be chucked in
the trash, flowers with nothing romantic, just simply infested with tragedy. I
hadn’t noticed I had shaded the sketch until I properly observed my creation.
‘It’s nice,’ I thought. ‘I’m happy with it.’ My first thought was to give it to
Holland. My second thought was to rip it out from its notebook and rip it apart
with the beat of my mother’s moaning, with the beat of the man’s hard
breathing.
            I ripped the page out and inhaled out. My fingers tensed up as I
fought the urge not to rip the paper apart. I folded the paper four times
before stuffing it into my hoodie pocket.
            “Calum. Calum. Oh-Calum.”
           He was this man she had met on a fucking dating website. He was this
man that did not appreciate her, that has never loved her properly. He was this
man that could never love her how my father loved her. He was a stranger. He
didn’t know her. I hardly knew her. She hardly ever spoke in the last five
years, how could anyone have known her? If she weren’t beautiful no one would
care. Except for me. Except for my father. How could she not see that I’m the
only one who could care? How could she not love me back? How can she keep
saying his name?
            There was a sudden thump from the other side of my wall. I jumped,
and found myself punching the wall a second after. Bad idea: my fingers began
to shake at once, and the skin on my knuckles became flaky at once.
            “Fuck!”
            “What the fuck was that?” I heard the man’s muffled voice from the
other side.
            “Shut the fuck up! You should be ashamed! Dirty posh grandpa!” My
mouth was pressed on the wall and my voice was so loud that my throat vibrated.
I punch the wall again, once, twice, three times.
            “Autumn!” She shouted, her voice soft and high. “Stop it godammit!
Stop it!”
            “You stop it!” I punched the wall again. “You fucking stop it!
Fucking slut!”
            There’s so much gas inside me. There’s always been a lot of gas, a
lot of fire waiting to burn everything else down, but it has never been this
bad. I hate everything so much. Too often, I see people as unfriendly trolls
striding about with big fat frowns on their faces. Sometimes, I can’t see
people as people. I see people as walking heartbreakers. I see people as
healthy flowers and me as dead flowers that lay on concrete: they take my
power. They exhaust me.
            My bedroom door came flying open. The man’s boxers were around his
hips, of course, two sizes too big. If his skinny body was not surging towards
me angrily, then I would of barfed at the sight of his ghastly presence. He
dashed towards me, his glasses not on his face, and his white hairy chest
approaching me way too quickly for my liking. I hardly had any time to make a
run for it, or even to move to the corner of my bed where it’s a little bit
safer.
            The man’s hand goes for my face. The first thing I captured was how
his hot breath smelled. The second thing I captured was his paper-thin lips.
The third thing I captured were his red-gray eyes attacking me with their
wickedness. He grasped my face with one bony hand, his large forehead wrinkling
up. He dug into my cheeks harshly. I froze. I waited for him to hit me with his
best shot.
            “What have I told you about calling your mum a whore?”
            “Technically, I called her a slut.”
            His fingers tightened, I felt like my jaw might be crushed, or at
least bruised. I heard myself squeal half a second after the aggressive
gesture.
            “Autumn. How many times have we got to go over this?”
            “Get your elderly cold hands off me Jack Frost!”
            His grip tightened once more. I squealed.
            “And who are you calling a fucking whore? Who are you calling a
fucking whore, Autumn Burns?” He squeezed. “Who?” Again. “Who?”
            I screamed. “Let go!” I shouted.
            “Who?”
            “Stop!”
            “Who you calling a whore you little druggie nymphet?”
            I punched him in the face. As he cowered to grab onto his face and
curse at me, I saw my mother standing by the door. She was just staring at me.
She had her silk robe on and her long black hair straight down and over her
shoulders. She did not say anything to me. She did not come to Calum’s aid. She
did not come to my aid. She just stared. I stared back for a while, admittedly
with traces of hope. It was traces of a hope that was nonexistent.
            Calum’s voice boomed out on top of the television’s white noise. He
cursed me. Basically he just voiced the usual. He called me a slut, a junkie, a
delinquent, and good-for-nothing. I loved it. It was music to my ears. He also
went on about how he cannot believe that he can’t get respect in his own home.
I found myself smiling when he held his head up and continued to curse me with
a tiny trail of blood coming out of his left nostril.
            “Oh shut up will you? Pathetic fucking idiot.” That’s the last
thing I said before they had told me to fuck off.
            My mother’s voice had woken me up as it always had. It wasn’t a
girlish voice but rather a very womanly one. At the same time though, it was
soft like a girl’s voice. How could such a soft voice articulate such vile
words?
            “If you’re going to act like you’re eleven again Autumn then fuck
off.”
            I stood from the bed, the gas igniting my free limbs. I approached
her, Calum mumbling profanities under his breath still. “One day.” I said. “One
day, I’m going to burn this house down. And I’m going to glue all the windows
and exits shut so that you can burn.”
            With that, they stopped talking. Both of them stopped running their
mouths completely. Their faces were puzzled in a manner that told me that they
did not doubt that I would do what I had just said I’d do. The fearful air that
protruded from their auras made a smile break into my face. I shook my head at
my mother in disappointment. She has no idea who I am and she’s never cared and
will never care.
            “You’re the bloody devil himself. How you could of came out of
Aubrey is beyond me!” The man stared at me harshly. He walked over to my mother
and stood next to her while he spoke his last words. “Put on some fucking
trousers and then fuck off my flat!”
            “I’ll fucking love to.”
            The small room felt cozier and cozier the closer I was to leaving
it. I knew I’d be back. It had to be the third time in a four-month period that
I had been kicked out. The bed was large and soft and the whole interior
smelled like huckleberry. The carpets were always clean and the fresh aromas
would hit me as I passed my pencils upon my notebook papers. Sometimes the
smell would make me sick, sometimes it would make me feel as happy as I was
going to ever get. The navy blue walls and the illustrations of blood,
intestines, and dead flowers hung upon them comforted me a lot more than they
should of. Especially when the room was a room that really belonged to a person
that detested me and felt like the world would benefit without my presence.
Still, I loved that room. I loved its serenity, and its loneliness.
            They stood by the doorway while I packed all my clothes. It was
mostly just sweaters and boyfriend jeans. I packed all my mother’s lovely
cosmetic products from Venus razors to hair mousse. I took her deodorants and
her sugary-scented hand lotions. I took all my notebooks, pencils, and
charcoals. I left all my college books and my school uniforms for it was the
beginning of the summer holiday and I was still unsure whether or not I was to
show up to year thirteen. Unsure whether it was of use for I could easily die
during this upcoming lonely summer.
            I zipped up the black duffel bag and popped on my light-wash
denims. I took my time with everything while their eyes followed my every
movement. I slowly pulled my rugged heavy boots on my feet while I
subconsciously waited for them to tell me not to leave. I stood up and looked
around the room and in my head promised all my drawings that’d save them before
the house was to shoot up in flames. I stood up and faced the pair. My mother’s
eyes were big, sad, and brown. Calum’s eyes were small, evil, and merciless.
They held on to one another. I knew my mother was seconds from falling apart.
Before awkwardly approaching them I stood before my mother. My bag was hanging
on my shoulders, my boots making me two inches taller, thus making me just a
tad bit taller than her. Her eyes were wet already. I departed by kissing her
on the cheek lightly. Of course though, she began to weep instantly, just as I
knew she was. That triggered the mad noises to return and the silence to
subdue. My mother began to weep. Calum began to curse me again. The fitness
video’s sounds boomed in the background. The sound of my boots stomping down
the stairs thumped. The sound of my heart boomed inside my eardrums. I
readjusted the duffle bag over my shoulder, and tucked my heavy set of hair
behind my ears.
            “You’re the devil, little Autumn! You and that man are the epitome
of scum! Of scum!”
            I opened the heavy red door wide open and I left.
                                       …
            I don’t stop running because my duffel bag became too heavy or
because I was out of breath or because my feet hurt, but rather because the
pavement ended and a smelly body of water started. I know exactly where I am.
There are miniature and rusty gray boats parked by docs. The water is brown and
muddy looking. It’s already dark outside, so the streetlights light the
exteriors. The streetlights’ flickering informs me that I am in the bad part of
London. It’s not the bad bad part, but it’s definitely not the pretty
picturesque part that you see in the films.
            I’m downtown. Downtown is where Holland lives. I always find my
hysteria taking me to him. It’s become second nature. While damaged people
think about cutting their wrists or committing murder, I think about meeting
with Holland. I think about his compact apartment. I think about his beige
bedroom walls, and about how my images don’t compliment his room. I think about
all the drugs he keeps inside his flat walls behind a white board where he
writes his daily to-do list. The night chills my bones and fogs my thoughts. I
look towards the body of water and the towns beyond. I hear the water moving,
hear the tiny waves that the summertime wind creates. I hear dogs bark in the
distance. There are no boats sailing on this peaceful night.
            I ran past two-family houses, project homes, and pretty
stereotypical English homes. Now I stand by a smelly bay, with a tiny pub that
lies in the corner where the pavement ended. There is also an electronics shop
that seems to be closed for the remainder of the night across the pub. Next to
the electronics store is a fish and chips shop that is also closed off.
Surrounding these businesses are scummy little brown and bricked buildings.
            One-third of the brown building where the pub lies is red. The
windows are tinted so you can’t really see inside. The top of the pub doors
say, The Scarlet Rose in large golden and elegant letters. The streets buzz
with silence except for the waters, the skies, and the exciting shouting
protruding from the inside of the bar. Either they’re watching football or the
beer is extra ripe tonight. I contemplate whether or not I should go inside.
Whether or not they’ll know I’m only seventeen. Of course they’ll know, I think
to myself. I look like I looked when I was fifteen, and I still hardly reach
160 centimeters.
            I decide to enter the pub as soon as two older men in front of
Sally’s Fish and Chips Shop begin to smoke up cigarettes and suggestively mimic
the gesture of masturbation. They chuckle to themselves as they continue to the
gestures. One of the lads has a brown coat on, thick brown hair, and an acne-
filled face. The other is of bigger demeanor and has big plump red cheeks. He
looks sweaty and bothered. For a second, I think he’s actually masturbating. I
stare at both of them intently, focused, and confused with their gestures or
what they think they’re going to get by doing what they’re doing. If Holland
was here, I think to myself immediately, he’d kill them: cold-blooded murder.
He’d destroy them.
            “How about it princess?”
            “Yeah, princess,” the heavy one follows, “how about it?”
            I observe them. They’re both wearing graphic tees from K-mart. One
of them a Mickey Mouse top, and the other one a South Park top. “I’ll cut your
tiny balls off,” I say “and I’ll fry them in Sally’s fryer and feed them to the
seagulls.”
            “Ooo. She’s a feisty one isn’t she?” Pizza face verbalizes as he
bites into his bottom lip and takes a step towards me. “Sounds sort of American
don’t she?” He smiles with all his teeth, all yellow and crooked. “I’ve never
had myself some American fanny.”
            “Have you ever had yourself any fanny? Who’s easy enough to give it
up to you anyway?”
            They laugh wholeheartedly in unison. It’s a loud guffaw that
strikes me with brief fear. My eyes dart off towards the entrance of the pub
again and as soon as my eyes return to the sleazy men, I realize that they are
two steps closer to me. They stare at me closely, and for a second I stare
back, frozen in place.
            “You’d let us inside you wouldn’t you sweetie?” Both their breaths
are hot and smell like dogs. Pizza face gets very close to me and looks down at
me. He’s very tall, at least six feet. His pudgy friend stands closely behind
him, grinning away. They’re quite pathetic. I’ve seen this all before. It’s not
the first time I’ve been approached by wolves. Pizza face picks at the tip of
the fabric of my hooded sweatshirt. “Wouldn’t you sweetie? Wouldn’t you?”
            His fingernails were bony and had a blue tint on them. “I don’t
usually fuck goblins but thanks for the offer.”
            “Oh, come on beautiful.”
            “Yeah, come on beautiful. Give yourself over to pleasure.”
            “Pleasure?”
            “Pleasure?”
            The word that releases from my mouth echoes from a different
source. It’s a source from the entrance of the pub. I can’t see who said it but
it was surely a boy. I stare at the entrance and watch a young boy walk out of
the warm place slowly. He’s got skinny jeans on with slits on the knees. He’s
wearing nice brown suede boots and a casual white t-shirt. He’s on the thin
side, but his broad-ish shoulders make him look a bit bigger than he really is.
He’s got thick blonde hair, that’s darker by the sides, immediately; I can tell
that the blonde isn’t his natural color but rather a dark brown, way darker
than my mess of light ash brown hair.
            His face is scrunched up, and he looks rather upset. He looks up at
the sleazy men with his arms folded. His eyebrows are stern. It’s almost like
he’s waiting for them to say something else. I stare at the boy that has come
to my defense. His eyes are bloodshot red, and his Adam’s apple moves up and
down in a manner that tells me that he’s swallowing away unexplainable lumps
that are sticking to his throat.
            “Leave her the feck alone. You pathetic pair. Like what do you
think you’re goin’ to get out of her? What?” 
            The sleazy men scoff and begin to back away. I once again feel the
drift that their closeness prevented reach me. I confidently stare at the boy.
I stare at the beauty marks that scatter down his neck. I stare at him waiting
for the masturbators to respond.
            “Oh fuck off, you Irish cunt,” Pizza face answers as he shakes his
head and begins to walk back in defeat. “Mind your fucking business. Mind your
own fucking business. Go have your twelfth fucking pint of the night.”
            The boy smiles at the sleazy men’s insults.
            The pudgy one follows pizza face and throws out, “yeah mind your
fucking business, man!” And then, “Go back to your countries! The pair of you!
This is fucking England!”
            Pizza face, the dark, better looking one of the pair, turns his
back and begins to strut off, up towards the pavement. He sticks his hands
inside his jacket, and you can tell, right away, that he’s a bit embarrassed of
how things unraveled. His trainers squeak as he walks up harshly. His large
friend repeats the words, “this is fucking England!” Then, he runs off toward
towards his friend. He wears the same Nike trainers as pizza face, but his
squeak a great deal more. The sound of the squeaks distancing make a smile
break into my lips. A genuine smile, not one that I have to force.
            I look back towards the entrance of the pub. The shouting from
before still continues like it did earlier. I look inside, the browns and
yellows of the interior contrast the exteriors. The outside is lighted with
cold blue streetlights and the moon’s bright glow. The boy’s eyes dart out
towards me. He observes me for a second before he is able to speak. He leans on
the doorway, and looks up and down at me looking like he’s trying to figure
something out.
            “You Irish?”
            “No,” I answer.
            “Where are you from then?” He asks stupidly.
            “New York.”
            “American? Wow. What the feck you doin' here?”
            I purse my lips unsure how I should answer him. I look down at my
feet and readjust the heavy bag on my shoulder once more. I kick a rock that
lay in front of the heel of my boot.
            “Is that where you’re off?”
            “What?”
            He motions to my bag enthusiastically; using his hands more than is
necessary. “Is that where you’re goin’? Back to New York?”
            “Oh no,” I say. “I wish,” I mumble.
            He looks at me confused, his hands still folded by his chest. He
studies me once more. Then he shrugs. “Where are you off’?”
            “To a friend’s house.”
            “Movin’ in?”
            I shrug, “I suppose.”
            He smiles suddenly and shakes his head lightly. Grinning away madly
to himself.
            “What?” I ask aggressively. “What?”
            “Nothin’,” he says after a light little chuckle to himself. “You’re
just a wee-bit weird is all,” he says with a thick grin on his face.
            I take a leap back. I feel heat enter my head at once, and my face
becomes hot, probably red if I was to look into a mirror. My face scrunches up
and I shake my head at him meanly. I bury my fingernails into the strap of my
bag and squeeze harder and harder.
            “Look who’s talking. Irish cunt.”
            “Whoa,” he responds with his hands out. “I hadn’t meant it as an
insult.” “Whoa,” he repeats, his grin beginning to drastically wipe away from
his face. “You’re just different, I dunno. I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to offend
you or anythin’, jaysus.” The boy covers his face and shortly begins to rub it,
clearly just as humiliated as me. He pushes his short hair out of his face and
stays with his hands on his head while he speaks. “Fuck’s sake want a pint or
somethin’?”
            I look at his red face, his red eyes, and the rich blue near the
center. He sighs and slaps his hands down on his hips. I begin to nod. “Yeah-
sorry. I want a pint.”
                                       …
            As soon as I enter the room, all eyes begin to point towards me.
The place is mainly filled with older men, the average age probably being
thirty-five. The boy leads me forward, and I follow his stride closely. There
is an army of men huddled up against the bar looking closely at the television
like it could possibly disappear or something. I was right, they are feasting
on a hot plate of soccer.
            The boy stops as soon as he reaches the end of the bar where two
stools lie emptily. He turns his body so that he is facing me. His blue puffy
eyes puncture me as they begin to observe me again. I drop my bag on the floor
while I pretend I don’t notice the gesture for something about his dreaminess
makes me believe he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He doesn’t snap out of it
until the bartender approaches him and asks him what he wants. I drop my head
down and quickly cover my face with my hair so that the bartender doesn’t get
the idea to ask me for identification. I stare at the boy’s brown boots tapping
away at the pub floor.
            “Two pints, Jack,” I hear him call out quickly. “Cheers.”
            His toes tap at the floor four times before his body turns and his
toes begin pointing towards me. I bring my head up slowly, making sure that the
bartender is out of sights, or at least far enough that he can’t see my face.
When my head’s all the way up, the boy’s eyes meet mine. He smirks at me, and
runs his tongue over his lips.
            “Ha. Underage? How old are ya?”
            “I’m-I”
            “Don’t tell me you’re fuckin’ fifteen or somethin’ like that,” he
whispers.
            I feel my face become hot again with humiliation. “I’m seventeen,”
I respond a bit defensively.
            Two cider-filled foamy glasses slide towards the boy and me. I
cover my face with my hand until the bald man serving the drinks has the
opportunity to go away.
            “Cheers, Jack.”
            “No problem, boy.”
            The boy picks up the drink at once and begins to down it without
hesitation. I see his throat swallow, the bone in his throat moving away like
it’s nobody’s business. The specks on his neck are more noticeable under the
pub’s bright yellow lights. He holds onto the glass with a mean grip. For a
second, I think the glass might shatter. I quickly look to the lad, and to my
glass. My head briefly begins pounding with a headache that I was expecting
since the afternoon had begun. I grab my pint, and follow in the boy’s steps. I
down the cup. I feel the foam stick to my top lip, and the taste of the crisp
bitterness infests on my tongue.
            The boy slams his glass on the wooden counter. He wipes his mouth
with the back of his hand and burps. Four seconds later, I slam my empty glass
on the wooden counter, and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
            “Careful with me glass! Fuck’s sake!”
           The boy chuckles before his eyes begin to direct themselves towards
me again. He smiles at me, and drowsiness captures his features. He turns his
attention to Jack once more and makes a number two with his fingers once more.
He adjusts himself on the stool before looking towards me again.
            “What do they call you?”
            “Autumn.”
            “Autumn.” He echoes.
            “Yeah,” I answer.
            “Want to know my name?”
            “No.”
            “It’s Niall.”
            Once more, two glasses slide our way. We do the same thing we did
last time. This time it’s faster, because it’s almost as if we we’re racing
this time or something. The third time it got quite funny, because it was
confirmed that we were in fact playing this ‘who can drink their beer the
fastest game.’ The fourth time, the chugging got quite complicated because
people started to watch us and shout us on. It was complicated because I was
stuck between choking on the liquid, and letting it drop on my shirt through my
uncontrollable smiling.
            “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”
            At the fifth, things start to get hazy. My headache becomes
stronger, but in a manner that makes my whole body heavier, and makes me forget
about it altogether. My eyelids begin to become immensely heavy, and my head
moves around freely. Niall grabs onto my shoulder, the crowd of people jolly
and full of life around him. Their football team won, and everyone’s rejoicing,
everyone’s so happy, and beautiful. I feel my chest become light with his
touch, feel myself smile with the tipsy people’s excitements.
            “All right, Autumn?”
            “All right,” I answer. “All right,” I repeat. “Super..”
            I stop counting after six. The room begins to spin at once. I feel
as if I climbed onto a carousel. The faces of the people move in front of me in
lapses. They’re fast and unreachable. I rub my eyes to attempt shaking it off.
The man behind the counter shouts out that someone ought to help me before I
fall over and hurt myself. I am about to verbalize to Jack, that I do not need
help, and am perfectly capable of walking about without aid. That is, before
any sense of balance leaves my body, and I’m suddenly descending to my right
from the stool.
            “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”It’s a chant that comes from different
directions, from different sources, nearly at the same time. I feel solid hands
catch me before I am to slam on the floor. The fingers dig into my sides and
with great force push me back up, and I am propelled back on the stool. I hold
onto my savior for support, to prevent my falling over once more. A strong hand
holds onto my upper arm as a way to steady me. Everything is moving past me too
quickly: my physical world, my emotions, the beating of my heart.
            “Jaysus, Autumn. I reckon I forgot most of us can’t hold our liquor
like us Irish cunts, huh?”
            I laugh. It’s not that funny, or even really remotely funny, but
I’m laughing, and I can’t stop myself from not laughing. My chest hiccups, and
I cling onto the boy’s shirt, tighter now, for I am about to lose my balance
once more.
            “What a riot, what a fucking riot,” Jack says strictly under his
glass voice. “Don’t let her fucking go. Don’t leave her here either!”
            “All right!” The boy shouts.
            “You get her the fuck out of here, boy!”
            “All right! Feckin’ hell!”
            I hear a hum of chatter coming in from all sides. I feel eyes poke
me from all sides. I feel like I’m an animal entrapped in a transparent case
for all to see. I’m making a fool out of myself. I know that, but I can’t do
much about it. A hand is placed on the small of my back. I think about
Holland’s boyish hands on me, all over me, steadying me and destroying me. I
think about how he uses the words “love,” and “always.” And I think about how
I’ve always wanted those words for myself, no matter who it came from. That’s
what I used to say. I used to say it didn’t matter who it came from, but now
I’m drunk in a bar and I want his comforts. Comforts that have no relation to
the words, “love” or “always.”
            I gasp. No food or beer comes out, but the gurgling motions inside
my esophagus assure me that it’s about to happen any second. I place my free
open hand on my chest. I close my eyes and inhale.
            “Get her out,” Jack repeats.
            “Have you no backbone, Jack?”
            The boy turns and hits me with a concerned glare. His blue eyes
look animated. The blue is so blue that I wonder whether or not they’re real.
Whether or not they’re in front of me right now.
            “Your eyes are very blue,” I say in a haze.
            The boy squeezes his hand around my upper arm, firmer now.
            “Oh feckin’ hell. Where does your mate live in, Autumn? We’ll take
you back all right?”
            “Mate?”
            “All right?”
            “I haven’t got any mates.”
            “Earlier-earlier you’ve said-”
            “-thank you for making those guys go away.”
            “What?”
            “Thank you for making those guys go away. The pizza and the
Pillsbury boy. Thank you for making them go away.”
            “Oh-oh! No problem, treasure. It’s what any decent person would’ve
done.”
            “No.” I say. “No.” I shake my head. “No. I have to repay you now. I
got to.”
            “Erm-can someone-”
            “-do you want to fuck me? I’ll let you if that’s what you want.”
            “Oh, for the love of god.”
            Jack makes a gruesome noise before he shouts, “get her out, boy!
She’s causing a right ruckus.”
            “I’m quite good. I promise.”
            Niall pulls me off the stool. I stumble forward at once, pushing
him back half a foot. A second stranger holds on to my other arm as a way of
steadying me. The bright light’s exposure makes it difficult for me to keep my
eyes completely open. I feel myself moving forward with the aid of the two
boys. I see blonde hair in my blurred peripheral. I feel his concentration
although I could hardly make out his features. The sound of excited sport
announcers booms inside the setting. The rugged men in the Scarlet Rose break
into a profound and sharp roar a second after the announcers behind the dusty
screen scream, “Goal!”
            Thing begin to get heavier while my head begins to get lighter. I
just want to sleep, I find myself thinking. I want to be at home. I want to be
at home with a bed that consumes me in softness and oblivion. A softness and
oblivion that makes me feel like I’m dead. That’s what I want right now. That’s
all I want. “Is that a no?”
            The boy ignores me. Tedious step after tedious step, and we’re
finally out of the bar. The noise from the place breaks into the night,
cracking on the sidewalk with a familiar taste of happiness and lightness that
the exterior lacks. My knees shake and I stop trying to be tolerable. I let
gravity take its toll on my body. The grips on my upper arm weaken at once. My
head slouches to the side and then down I go, down to the pavement, my ass
slamming to the ground, and my back hitting the building of the well-wired pub.
            “Hey-hey. C’mon now.”
            I drop my head back on the bricked structure. I inhale again. The
streetlights hit my cheeks, and I feel their judging eyes on me. I don’t care
what they think of me.
            I shake my head. “I don’t care what you guys think of me.”
            All that matters is what Holland Ford thinks of me.  So, I think
about how Holland would feel about this. He’d kill me, he would. He’d ask me
why I didn’t go to his flat the second that my mother told me to fuck off. He’d
ask me why I was talking to people I didn’t know; drinking with people I didn’t
know. He’d tell me that I was ‘fucking mad,” and that I have ‘no sense of
logic.’ He’d ask me if I love him, and I’d tell him I do. He wouldn’t believe
me. Not at first. Not until after the second I would give him everything I had,
just until he had everything that belonged to me. Everything: again, and again,
and again.
            Niall descends before me, getting down to the ground on his knees.
He leans forward, and I find that I subconsciously jerk my head sideways so
that our faces are as far away to one another’s as possible. The hard gesture
sends white little stars before me. My eyes become heavy, and my heart starts
to pound so hard that I find it difficult to catch a breath.
            “No need to get fucking defensive, child. It’s happened with all of
us. At least twice.” Niall doesn’t say this, but rather the stocky man that
stands behind him, towering over the both of us.
            “Treasure. Where are we to take you?” I see three Niall’s in front
of me, his blue eyes still very blue under the nighttime. His voice booms out
and gives me the sense that the words coming out of his mouth aren’t really
coming out of his mouth.
            “To Holland’s,” I mumble. “To Holland’s, I suppose.”
            “All right. All right. Where’s that?”
            “Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven, Flowers Close.”
            “Twenty-seven at Flowers Close, got it.”
            “Niall? Could I ask you a question, Niall?”
            “What is it treasure?”
            “Why don’t you want to fuck me?”
            “Erm.”
            The man behind him chuckles. “Oh god,” he states lightly.
            “Treasure, you’re twisted beyond belief. You don’t really want to
have a ride with a random Irish cunt you’ve hardly just met at the pub.”
            “I’ve got to make it up to you.”
            “Got to make what up to me, treasure?”
            “I’ve got to make it up to you,” I inhale. I hold on to my breath.
My fingers dive into the hooded sweater’s large center pocket. I feel the thin
crispy paper graze at my jittery and weak fingertips. I grasp onto the folded
sheet, feel the top of my finger poke around the sharp edges. I take the paper
out of my pocket and I hold it out. The boy stares at it at first.
            “Erm. Okay.”
            He takes it. He doesn’t open it. “Thank you,” he says awkwardly.
            “I hope you like it. It’s all I’ve got.”
            “Thank you,” he repeats.
            I’m not aware of how sick I feel until the boy’s three faces smile
warmly at me. My stomach goes all topsy-turvy. I begin hacking and gagging at
once. Nothing comes out of me, because nothing’s inside of me.
            “All right. Take it easy,” Niall says.
            I gag once more; my head slumped all the way down. I stare at my
lap, at my oversized jagged jeans. I wait patiently for the moment when my
pants are full of everything that I had eaten yesterday or this morning. The
boy places his hand on my shoulder and rubs his hand back and forth gently. The
night begins to close in. The darkness starts to fade in as my head pounds with
the peaceful sounds of the waters and the sounds of the ecstasy that bangs out
from all the voices inside the Scarlet Rose. All the voices that are alive.
            “Autumn?” He calls out softly. “Autumn?” He calls out again.
            “What?” I hardly even say it.
            “Exhale.”
 
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
