Going To Hell (Harry Styles)

"But, père! Why Holmes Chapel if mère's job is in London?!"




Exclaimed the family's older daughter, Mathilde, some of her words still showing her french accent. England's weather was already showing of on her. Her black wavy hair turning into a darker shade, her hazel eyes looking more sparkly, her already pale skin looking almost white, making her cheek and under-eye freckles show off and making her lips redder with the contrast. (A.N // lets pretend that Lily Collins has freckles.//)
Mathilde'd family heritage had nothing to do with where she had grown up. Her mother, Bela was Portuguese and her father, Roland was English. However, Mathilde was considered French and so was her brother.
Physically, Mathilde had herded her father's features. Roland, with his chocolate eyes, pale skin and brown hair, was probably the one the resembled her the most. Bela had green eyes, tanned olive skin, and black hair, resembled her son, Anthony.
Mathilde sighed. To her it made no sense. Back in France, things were perfect, they lived a good life and their family was healthy. Until the day, when a letter from the British Embassy arrived with the message that one her father's antessesors had left him a heiranss of around 5 billions of pounds.
Roland quited his job, bought a house in Holmes Chapel, and in two weeks time they were arriving in Heathrow.
"Your mère's job is once per week."
"Alright, but why the old house?!"- Complained Mathilde. Her parents thought that she throwing a tantrum, and honestly, she was.
"You know that your mère likes that type of houses." - Tried to Roland, growing slightly angered, but trying to hide it from Mathilde, Bela and Anthony.
That was true. The Holmes Chapel house would be their third house that was over a century. Although Mathilde was being winy about it, she had to admit that Holmes Chapel was a beautiful place. Little but very beautiful.
The small village disappeared behind her father's Rolls Royce -one of his first acquisitions-. A big golden gate with a huge house behind it to match stood in front of them. The house looked old, and very Victorian. Whoever owned it before, was undoubtedly rich.
Her father had mechanized the gates so as soon as he digitized the code they opened. The entrance was beautiful. It had a big fountain in front of the main stairs and everything seemed to be perfectly cleaned.
Four people were standing in front of the maid door with wide smiles on their faces. Mr. Tomlinson, the Gardner, Mr.Richards, the Butler, Miss Rosalie, the nanny and Mrs. Charleston, the main. The four people greeted the house's new owners and presented themselves.
As they were walking down the hall of paintings that the previous owner had, Mathilde gasped.
"Mère! Qu'est-ce que c est?!" - She exclaimed, startling the rest of the group and making them turn to face her and the two portraits that had made her stop. At the sight of them everyone stopped and ran towards the girl.
The first portrait showed a girl that resembled Mathilde a lot. The clothes couldn't be from a collection far from the Autumn/Winter 2012 one. They were everything but old-fashioned. The woman wore her hair the same way, and the face was so close to hers that they could be twins. Every little spot in her skin was visible.
On the second one, that same woman was smiling with a man holding her. The man had a grin carved on his face and a expression that screamed love.
"What kind of sick joke is this?! Who's the man?!"- The girl yelled, with her french accent slightly turning her words into something that almost made her brother laugh. she was terrified. Her face was livid.
"These were part of Mr. Styles' private collection..."- said Evan Richards, with an extased voice.
"Mr.Styles?"- asked Mathilde, her voice still trembling.
"The house's previous owner. He's the man next to you." -Evan explain, his voice still showing that he was paying more attention to the portraits.
Mathilde headed to the portraits. The man couldn't be way older than her. He had curly brown hair, green eyes, a fantastic jaw, that in her opinion looked like if it had been hand made, and two visible dimples.
"Who was the artist?"- asked the girl, almost afraid of her own question. If she knew the painter than she could at least search for any reason over why someone would ask or buy those portraits.
"Harold Edward."
Mathilde turned to look at Evan, her eyes laced with curiosity. He talked crazy. Who was Harold Edward? Who was Mr. Styles? And why would he want portraits of her -or at least of someone who resembled her a lot-.
Before she could ask him all of those questions, Evan was gone. She turned back to portraits and examined the woman. Undoubtedly, they looked like the same person.
Suddenly Evan was by her side, with a rusty old leather notebook. It looked like a journal and was covered in dust.
Mathilde gratefully took it and opened it on the first entry.
11th May 1912

She appeared. My dream was lovely. The fair lady, whose name I found out to be Mathilde came to me in my slumber. Her black flowy hair that looked like the night sky, her almond shaped hazel eyes that looked like Autumn leaves, her lips, red, pouty and soft like a petal of a rose and her pale as snow skin.
She dressed in a exquisite way, but so did I. Today, I portrayed her. I must say, it looked good


Harold Edward Styles.


12th May 1912

She came again. My fair and beautiful lady met me in my dreams again. This time she looked even more beautiful. Her hair was loose, she was wearing a long white gown and was barefoot. I was also barefoot. (...)

Mathilde closed the journal. She didn't feel like reading more of that at the moment. The owner turned out to be also the painter.
"How did he die?"- She asked.
"He was thrown of a window."- replied Evan with a pitying small smile.
"How old was he?"
"24. He died the day after he finished the last portrait. The one with both of you."
Her eyes widened, and tears threatened to fall. He had there, in his house -now hers- never knowing what love was, and waiting for the woman, with whom she shared the name and beauty.
She got closer to the portrait and touched the borders. She got confused when her hand came in contact with something. She brought it to her mouth and tasted. Salt. Why would someone put salt in there, was question that was played in her mind. But in that moment, Mathilde just wanted to get away from those portraits, so she grabbed the journal tight against her chest and continued walking down the hall.
Evan, however, stood there, only leaving after he mumbled:
"These shouldn't be here..."

Notes