The Book Of Anna & English

15 - Old Pine

Little ducks...

Sit down.

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Triggers:

- Slight panic

***

I think there's a splinter lodged between my ribs,

***

Anna

We stood, steady as the stars in the woods.

"Come on, English, you're dead on your feet." I link my arms with him, dragging him away from the group towards his tent. "Party time Anna Rose." He pouts, but I shake my head with laughter. He's barely holding on; the weed and lack of sleep have done a number on him for sure.

The rest of the group is going strong; Mell somehow ended up in Niall's clothes, and Oliver is busy poking a stick at random spots on a big tree that sits in the middle of the campground.

Louis is out for the count, laying in the dust, sunglasses sitting askew on his face, his phone clutched in his hand tightly, a bottle of tequila in the other.

My heart aches every time I think about it. The picture of a broken-down Harry in the woods will forever be a part of every thought I have.

"Anna Rose." He draws out, his accent heavy without the usual filter, his words rough and poorly formed. "Yes, English?" I look up as we walk, getting lost in the forest again. "I call you something in my head." A goofy smile, his two front teeth going over his bottom lip, and lazy eyes.

"Is that so? Tell me what it is." He shakes his head, looking up at the sky, the clouds distracting him. "Nope, that's classified information." He swipes his finger from left to right to emphasize. "Guess it's just something I'll have to live with then."

I open his tent, step inside and pull him by our linked arms. The smell of vanilla and captured sun is prominent, the tent stuffy from being closed for so long. Clothes in a heap at the corner, his tent looks like a hurricane passed through, and it's only been one day since we arrived.

"Bed." He mumbles, falling like a sack of potatoes onto his sleeping bag, making my winch. I manage to stay upright when his arms unexpectedly rip from mine. "God, that was dumb." He groans, turning onto his stomach.

Tiny particles of dust fly up and dance before my eyes, gathering together to form different patterns, swaying lightly on the air pockets.

"Get some sleep, English; you had a rough couple of days." He turns on his side, eyes finding mine. His arms fold over his torso as his eyes close. "Can it still be like that?" He yawns, snuggling his face into the pillow.

"Like what, Harry?" I move closer, bending down and taking off his shoes. "I can't sleep; I'm afraid to see it again." I crawl closer, shuffling behind him, aligning my front to his back, putting my hand on his ribcage.

"It felt like someone ripped a part of my heart out; it was so unexpected. I was left there standing with my hand over my chest to stop the bleeding, trying to plug a gaping wound with just the palm of my hand." 

His description leaves me cold, bile rising in my throat at the visual that's stuck in his head. Sometimes we tend to underestimate a nightmare, we shake out our arms and move on, putting it aside, but that's not how they work.

Nightmares are honest, sometimes so realistic that you wake up wondering for hours if it actually happened? The cold sweat you wake up in is a sticky reminder that you were there; you felt everything so vividly.