Legendary // H.S

50.

'Hurting bad man, and it hurts inside when I look you in your eye'

*

It's quiet as I arrive back at the house, only the light of the kitchen turned on indicating Harry's close presence. The blood on my clothes has dried entirely, but I hoped to be rid of it before he saw me. I guess we'll have to discuss this now.

As the front door shuts his voice calls out into the hall, the sound of a tap turning off in the distance. 'You're home late, little gem,' he states, footsteps following his words. The closer he gets the more nervous I find myself. It's as if I'm a child that's done something wrong and is about to be scolded by their parent. This isn't something I was willing to compromise on, though, which is why I didn't tell him. Zayn and Babz will surely get an earful after he's made aware, but tonight it will just be me that deals with his wrath.

I can still hear the gasp that left Emma's chapped lips as the knife plunged into her for the first time, the sound replaying in my mind and bouncing around my ear canals. Constantly repeating its sequence again and again. A symphony of pain and death. Did Beethoven ever experience this?

At first, it energised me, but now it haunts me. Like the ghosts of a past that have been forced into hiding, a memory threatening to resurface after you banished it. I don't want to forget, though. I'm not sure I can, not when the very smell of her blood is permanently sitting in my nostrils paired with the image of her lifeless body under my grasp. There's some guilt surfacing, something I hadn't expected after the high. The come down after ingesting a drug, but somehow it feels heavier.

It is overshadowed by the adrenaline that still courses through my veins. Pumping through my blood stream and echoing in my pulse. An odd feeling when mixed with doubt.

Through the dark I can make out Harry's silhouette as he approaches me, but his face is still hidden. 'It's pitch black, why haven't you turned the light on yet?' he asks, hand coming up to the switch closest to him. As my body is illuminated and his eyes focuses on my frame, the glass in his hand falls to the floor and shatters.

Within seconds he's standing in front of me, his hands frantically inspecting every inch of my skin. Behind his eyes I can see something worse than worry. An emotion I've only seen from him on a handful of occasions. Fear. He's scared. Terrified that the claret staining my skin is my own and not that of his enemy. Yet, I can't seem to get the words out to inform him of his mistake. Instead, I am glued to my spot and frozen in time.

His hands lift my top quickly, pulling at my stomach and chest to make sure no cuts or injuries are visible before dropping to his knees and inspecting my legs. Once it becomes clear I am unharmed, he slowly rises to meet my gaze again, a look of anguish on his face. 'What did you do?' he questions, voice barely above a whisper.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a few seconds, trying to steady myself as the weight of my actions becomes heavier on my shoulders. 'Strike one.'

His hands grab my face with some force, my eyes meeting his as I open them. He's apprehensive. 'What do you mean?' he pushes once more.

Finally, my shoulders relax, and I prepare myself for the impact of the fall. After what happened, I just wanted to shower and sleep, but somehow I don't think that will happen anymore. I'll be lucky if I get an hour of rest in given the stress emitting from him. 'Emma's been handled.'

Instantly, his hands release me and his expression changes. He takes a few steps back, the only sound in the hall, though his feet are bare. The atmosphere around us has changed rapidly. Something I can't entirely read just yet. On his face is a look of anger, but it's paired with a battle of grief. The two components fighting against each other for dominance in his reaction. Perhaps I've broken him.