eleven | saying (sorry) is a bit overdue

It feels weird to come to terms that I've done the unthinkable; fallen in love within a week's time. Zayn practically had me convinced by the time I was leaving him with a sorrowful goodbye. It had been awhile since we really had a decent talk, and I missed it.

It's also insane; the idea of it simply makes me sick and I want nothing but to wake up with amnesia. At this point, that's the only plausible cure; waking up and forgetting this month. Then maybe I would feel better moving into April.

My phone buzzes as I roll to a stop light. When my car halts I pick it up, reading Zayn's name on the screen.

Z: get some sleep, DON'T DRINK, and try and ease him out of your mind slowly. you've been trying to rid of him all at once, and that's simply not possible bud. take him like the tide, inch your way through it.

I smile, flipping my phone around as I read Zayn's endearing words. I was wrong; he does know what he's doing.

L: thanks z, i'm going to try. like, fr try this time lol. but seriously, you're great, god bless you.

Z: uh, don't go all church like on my ass.

The light turns green and I roll my eyes with a smile, dropping the phone on the dash and driving through the intersection.

What Zayn had suggested was definitely the plan; along with my own positive thoughts. I'm going to start tomorrow, cleansing my mind of that trip. I'm planning on calling Zayn a few days later to help with The Cleanse, as I'm naming it, but the first few steps have to be done by me, one hundred percent. I need to have a Taylor Swift perspective on this situation. Yeah, he's gone, but in losing him, I need to find myself. Oh god; maybe I am lowkey Taylor Swift.

The first step to this is getting rid of that godforsaken note. It's the main source of the nostalgia I can't seem to escape, so that's where I need to start. Whether I have to rip it or bury it, I will get rid of it.

My phone buzzes again and I look down to see that Zayn sent me an 8tracks link. I look ahead of me and see that the street is going to be straight for awhile. I groan, looking around for cops before I pick up my phone and press my code in.

Z: for the long drives we'll have, btw; http://8tracks.com/livinglavish/i-hate-you-i-love-you

I shrug, plugging in the AUX chord, clicking the link and letting 8tracks load before the newest Coldplay song blasts in my car. Great; it's not like this entire album is about the overwhelming positive power of love.

I skip 'Hymn For The Weekend' and it switches to a much more somber song, putting me in tune with the dark empty road ahead of me. I don't recognize the song, but nonetheless, I take myself and completely drown myself in it.

I miss times like these, when I'd be on my own, and I could just think with an open head. If it wasn't so cold, I would have all the car windows turned down, opening the space up even more.

The road seems to be never ending as I drive through red light after right light. By the time I turn into my driveway, I'm halfway through the thirty track playlist. I stop in front of my house, staring the front stairwell down and exhaling.

Home sweet home.

"Let the cleansing begin," I mumble, running my hands over my face as I plug out my phone and shut the car off. I pull myself out of the vehicle, clutching my work bag as I hum the last song I heard under my breath.

"Ten months sober, I must admit..." I hum to myself as I take out my house keys and unlock my door.

"Just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss--"

The door to my house falls over with a thud, and my things drop with it. The inside of my house is destroyed. Literally, destroyed from the walls being blown, to all the furniture flipped one way or another. My entire home has been ransacked.

And the first thing I can think about, is my cat. Where is my cat.

I hear people screaming upstairs, and my eyes widen as I back up into the kitchen, almost falling onto the rubble that was falling from the ceiling. How has anyone in my neighborhood not called 999?! The screaming gets louder, and I reach in my pocket, swiping to the left twice, straight to the emergency page. Once I dial 999, I go to press the call button, but my phone is smacked out of my hand and into the wall. I watch it shatter as my hands are roughly being tugged behind me.

"Hey!" I scream, "Let go!"

"Akhrs ! Tahtaj 'iilaa shup hatta alan !"

I scream even louder, thrashing in the man's grasp. Thankfully, I get my elbow up and hit him roughly in the face, giving me a spare second to square up and get a good look at his face. But when I turn to him, I only see black cloth wrapped around his face, and the faces of the others that were running down my stairwell.

"Shit," I scramble from where I'm standing in awe and blot, running through the backdoor and towards the fence. Can I even jump the fence? What the hell am I even thinking right now? My brain is running a mile a minute and it's completely fucking with my judgement.

Whether I can jump the fence or not is no longer a problem when I feel a foot being shoved right up my nose. I fall back on impact from the kick, my hands reaching up to hold my possibly broken nose.

"Alhusul ealaa alhabl ! Rabt ma yasil 'iilayh !"

They grab my hands again, tighter this time as they hold me hostage. I try and scream again, but the one who kicked me in the nose covers my mouth with industrial tape before I can get a peep out. I thrash in their restraints, praying one of them will accidentally let loose, but all my hope fades away with my consciousness when I get hit in the back of the head.

-

When I wake up, the entire room looks like a giant ass fuzzball. I see shapes that resemble people, objects, things I can't exactly make out, and more. I hear far away voices speaking in strange gibberish that I can't quite understand. Eventually, things begin to become lucid, and my eyes adjust to the darkness. Six figures, all armed and holding their guns tightly. The moonlight shines and gives their faces a little light to them.

"'Innah ya sayidi mustayqizaan . Madha yjb 'an nafeal alan?"

"Let me speak to him," the one in the center says, inching closer to me as I try to move away. That task happens to be impossible, because my hands and feet are tied to my own kitchen chair.

"Hello Liam," he leans down, his breath reeking of onions and all terrible things that people could eat without dying, "how are you?"

I don't reply, scrunching my nose instead as a response. He snorts, pinching my broken nose as he tilts my head up. I cry out in agony as one of the men in the back speaks up.

"Twqf! nurid 'iijabat , wanahn la ?"

The man looks back, glaring at the one that spoke up. I take this time to look at the red symbol embedded on all their black suits. The words written in the center are clearly written in Arabic or Urdu. That must be the language they're speaking in.

"Akhrs! 'Ant 'ahmaq ghyr kif' !"

I hear a gunshot go off, and the man that spoke last drops dead on the carpet. My jaw drops as I start breathing rapidly, frightened squeals coming out of my mouth. The screams are being blocked by the industrial tape. There's a dead man on my kitchen floor.

"Oh, you do need that removed, don't you?" The one man that is speaking English to me rips the tape off of my mouth, and I continue to scream for help.

"Help me! Help me please--!"

"Scream, and I blow your brains out," he threatens me, as one of his other henchmen holds a gun to my temple. Beautiful; this is all beautifully playing out in my favor.

"Now," he continues, taking out a paper from his back pocket and shoving it my face, "read the name."

I look down at the paper he's showing me, reading two words; Edward Harrison.

"Okay..." I mumble, slightly confused, "what about it?"

"'Innah la yaerif alqarf ! Limadha nahn eana'an talab minh hah ?!"

"I'll shoot you too," the one behind me warns him, "watch your words."

I can't help the urge to want to learn Arabic now. I mean seriously; knowing what they're saying right now could be really helpful to me. But he turns his attention back to me, narrowing his eyes as he leans in closer.

"Know anything about him?"

It's safe to say that I'm petrified at this point; I have no idea what's to come. If I say yes, they could kill me, or ask for more information. If I say no (which is the truth), they could torture me and then kill me. The fact that I'm looking death in the face as I sort this out, is something that hasn't registered in my mind yet.

"I don't know who he is," I decide to respond, "I really don't--"

"You're lying!"

My prediction comes true, and I feel a gash open on my cheek. He punched me; with brass knuckles.

"Okay," the man sighs, "I'm going to try again, Mr. Payne. Edward. Harrison. Where is he."

"I don't know!" I shout, and the other man behind me clicks the trigger to his gun. Shit; no screaming, or else my brains get blown out. Right.

The tears have already been streaming down my face, but now I can feel them falling at a steady flow. This is not how I expected the rest of my night to go. And just where the hell is my cat?!

"Where's my cat?" I ask quietly, somewhat nervous for the response.

"Oh..." his mouth forms that familiar 'O' shape that's only made when one realizes something, "that was your cat?"

My cat is dead. There's the answer to my question.

"I-I--" I sigh deeply, breathing in and out as calmly as I can, "I don't know Edward Harrison. I don't know why you're here, and I don't know who any of you are!"

"And you never will," he shrugs, snapping at the gunman, "kill him."

"No--"

A bomb goes off downstairs, and I feel the ground lift from the impact. I'm surprised my entire house hasn't collapsed on us yet, but I'm thankful that my kidnappers were temporarily distracted from murdering me.

"Man hu huna alan ?"

"'Innaha almakhraj w biaightialih," the one English speaker says, "Darab bih . Qutil alakharin . Ladayh maelumat w 'ana 'aelam 'annah."

I hear guns shooting through my house, but have no time to react as I see the handle of a gun being thrusted into my face.

"No no no NO--!"

-

I wake up and I'm tucked in. I gasp frantically, feeling myself up and down, and noticing I'm dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Was I sleeping? How long was I sleeping?

Suddenly, the memories from the last time I was conscious resurface, and I look around, frantically. What damage is left?

And that's what frightens me; there's no damage.

I scramble out of my bed, looking around to see if there's any evidence of the crime committed in my house. There's nothing left. I ran downstairs, checking for the blowed walls, but everything was repaired. I gasp, reaching up to touch my nose. It's bandaged, wrapped in gauze tape and no longer in pain.

What happened?

I head to my bedroom again, walking up slowly, still searching for anything that could have remained the same from when I arrived home all those hours ago.

Who could have done this...fixing everything? And in such a short period of time? It's as if they wanted me to think this was all some big mind boggling dream.

I sigh, opening the door to my room and tugging at the bottom of me shirt. Then I feel it. That sick feeling in my stomach that became all too familiar to me once I arrived in Spain. The sense of a specific presence. And when I turn to my balcony, I know my assumptions are correct.

His shadow is overtaking the entire room once I get a good view of him. He's there, presenting himself before me, waiting for me to drop on my knees and bask in his glory. Harry stands on my terrace, looking like Zorro as he stares at me. My hands are shaking as I finally see the man that took my heart and tore it into pieces without thinking about what it would do to me.

He's here.

Harry came back.

And I want nothing more, than to punch him in the face.

"You've been out for so long..." he begins our reunion, "I thought you were never going to wake up."

"How long was I out?" I ask in response.

"Two weeks."

"Why didn't you take me to a hospital?"

"We--I knew why you were unconscious. You weren't in a coma; it wasn't supposed to last long but then after a week, your eyes were still closed, and I panicked."

If it's really been that long, then the repairs make sense. But what I don't understand is how no one (especially Zayn) called to check up on me, and why Harry is standing inside my house.

"I don't know what you're doing here, but leave." I say instead of running up to kiss him, my voice shaking and sudden tears falling from my eyes, "Leave and don't come back."

"Liam," Harry whispers, reaching out for me, but I pull from him. He can't touch me; not after leaving. The fact that he has the audacity to place his hands on any part of my body amazes me alone.

"Leave like you left in Spain!" I shout, "Get the fuck out of my house!"

My breathing picks up frantically and he grips my wrists. I don't stop him, slightly missing his touch and slightly wanting to pound him in the face until he cries as much as I have for the past two weeks.

"Shh shh shh..." he tries to calm me, squeezing my wrists, "I know Li, I know--"

I cut him off, ripping my hands from his and meeting him halfway with a well earned slap in the face. I know? He better fucking know! His face is marked red with my handprint and as I glare him down, he reaches up to touch his stinging cheek.

"Liam," he says again, but in an even softer tone, "I'm sorry I hurt you--"

"No you're not," I repeat, making sure I drill the guilt in his brain, "you are not sorry so stop saying you are. Why bother lying to me twenty times when you can just tell the truth and put me at ease?"

He nods, possibly understanding how utterly pissed off I am. Then again, that's physically impossible, because I'm beyond mad. I'm everything in the book that could possibly trace back to depression; anger towards myself for letting me fall for him and his stupid way to appear enticing and basically irresistible. Anger towards Harry for knowing how I felt, taking it, and using it for his own gain. He probably knew I would stay loyal to him; that's why he's here right now, of all places. Who else could he turn to but the boy who ended up falling head over heels for him in a week?

"Liam," he tries to redeem himself again, "I couldn't tell you why I left. I'm sorry, I really am--"

"Why not?" I pry on, "Why couldn't you tell me this huh? What's the big secret. Because so far, all I know is that you may or may not be who you say you are!"

"Look I--" he sighs dramatically, throwing his hands in the air as he looks left and right, "fuck, I'm already in enough trouble! Can you just cooperate?"

"What trouble--"

"Just cooperate for one fucking second--!"

"Don't you dare yell at me!" I shout back in an even louder tone, "You have boundaries now! You don't raise your fucking voice at me--"

I feel his hands on my shoulder as he pulls me closer, doing the completely unthinkable in this situation; yet I allow it. My anger melts like jello as the familiar warmth of his lips makes it's own reappearance in my life. My arms fall limp near my sides as he pulls even more, gripping my shoulder blades as he presses his mouth onto mine, like he's trying to find something that he left in Spain within our kiss.

He draws away a little while after, keeping his crystal green eyes focused on my own dark brown, that are dilated with tears he triggered. I see the sorrow as he stares caringly, his hold on me softening along with his demeanor.

"I don't know how much pain I've put you in," he whispers, "but I'm sorry. I don't want to see you cry; I never have, and I never will."

"What's going on?" I ask him desperately, "It's all I want to know Harry."

"I promise you, I will straighten this out for you as soon as I can," he assures me, looking to the right nervously, "but right now, you need to take deep breaths, relax, and go with what's about to happen, okay?"

"Okay," I say, steadying my breathing, "what's about to happen...?"

"Just trust me, okay?" he says, "You're going to be okay. There's just some business that needs to be sorted out..."

He kisses me one last time, the taste of his lips lingering as he releases his grasp on me completely, leaving me with an empty feeling circulating in my stomach. I watch as he mouths a slow 'sorry' before another pair of hands grips my back.

"What," I turn immediately, seeing a man with a black mask tying my hands together behind my back, "let go of me! Let go!"

"He said cooperate, didn't he?"

The now familiar feeling of the handle of a gun hitting my head comes back and I cry out, hanging my head down.

"Hey!" I hear Harry's fuzzy voice shout, "You said you wouldn't hurt him!"

I'm not sure what the guy tying me up says, or of my next location, because he replies after I pass out in his hold.

welp, sorry. what do you think is going on?
i wanted to do that hashtag thing, but i'm not sure anymore.

comment!
(and there are no translations because this is from LIAM'S point of view. liam knew what he was saying in spanish, but has no idea how to speak arabic. you guys get to know as much as he does.)