Murder Me Kindly| H.S

17- 3AM

play this song quietly in the background whenever you see fit :)

Carmen Amor

I stare at the glass of whiskey resting beside my hip with a detached, tired look.  I know the second I pick it up and take a sip it'll be a silent agreement to answering Harry's question. And I don't know if I want to tell him.

There is this pesky feeling of obligation nagging in the back of my mind telling me that I need to tell him. That I need him to understand it's okay for us to be vulnerable with one another.

I remember telling Harry that my first rule of friendship was trust. Never lying. No important secrets basically. But that's always going to be easier said than done.

My secrets aren't ones you'd laugh at during a drunken game of Never Have I Ever. My secrets aren't ones you only tell your best friend in solidarity. No, mine are shameful, twisted, and damaging secrets.

The secrets I carry are like a mosquito bite. They itch and beg you to scratch them. When I scratch my secrets it's equivalent to me trusting someone with my darkness. Either way, when I finally do scratch it's like I just can't get enough.

I don't pace myself.

So I scratch and scratch and scratch until finally, the bite begins to bleed and burn and hurt. This part is when I show someone my darkness and they view me differently; see me as damaged.

The last thing I want is for Harry to see me differently. Will he look at me differently? Will he think I'm a bad person? Will he see me the way I see myself? I don't want to find out but like I've said before, holding shit in isn't my cup of tea. That shit fucks you up, immensely.

I slowly and hesitantly move my hand toward the glass of liquor. I pick it up and feel the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat, coating it with its unique sting that I welcome with open arms.

I rest my head backward, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath before I speak, "You know sometimes I get tired?".

"Tired of hiding. Faking. Pretending. Pretending like my world didn't fall apart four years ago. Pretending as if I even deserve the right to pretend." I look over at Harry and find his eyes closed but his brows are furrowed and his lips pinched into a frown.

"I don't deserve to live in a fantasy of make-believe happiness and forced laughter. I deserve to wallow in my pain; to bask in it. Consume it. Accept it." I pick up my glass again, finishing the rest in one gulp, and then pour myself another.

I stare into the ceiling imaging her smile, "But she deserved it though. She deserved a fantasy; a fiction life. Every smile and laugh and ounce of joy received in her life, she deserved it all. And it's selfish of me to live in my fantasy when I didn't notice her fantasy was coming to an end. That her fairy tale book was on its last chapter."

"You know what's the funny and fucked up thing about life? All good people you meet have gone through bad shit at least once. And when you learn what they've been through you think to yourself that they're too good for what happened to them; too pure. However, for some reason, it seems the shitty people are luckier than the pure."

The whisky begins to loosen my lips and let my thoughts pass through, and I'm just ranting at this point. Ranting out my drunken, 3 A.M thoughts to a brooding man with a constant frown.

"Bad people constantly win in life. Evil CEOs and racist bosses. Entitled men and trust fund babies who think they've done shit when everything has been handed to them on a silver platter. ....Me." I proceed with my ramble. 

"You're not a bad person Rose." Harry's deep voice startles me since he's been silent this entire time.

I let out a humorless laugh, "Oh but I am. You have no idea."