Wonderland | H.S.

Chapter Ten

missed u xo
don't miss the parallels to OW

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Presley's POV | Violet Delight's Motel

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I'm going to fucking die.

With every faltering breath in me, I know the next three gulps of air will be my last as an arm crushes my top half. I don't have any upper-respiratory infections that I know of, but I also haven't been to the doctor in ever.

I've been in life-threatening situations a multitude of times before—one actually taking place about seven days ago—but at least I had death to look forward to. Now? Now, I only have a nostalgic feeling that makes me want to nibble on decayed and rotten bricks until my teeth shatter like the glasses Mia throws.

I hope she's well.

Keeping my eyes on the ceiling, I'm careful not to move a muscle. If I move at all, then Harry will wake up. If he wakes up, then he'll open his eyes. If he opens his eyes, then he will see that his right arm is draped across my stomach in a proximity—remember-we-dated?—kind of way.

Last night, or dare I say a couple of hours ago, I came down onto the makeshift mat because I knew it was unfair for me to sleep in that beautiful bed crafted by the bed bug angels themselves.

Also, in a less important way that I dare anyone to quote me on, to be next to him.

Sue me. Just because he fell out of love with me—or I guess never fell in it—doesn't mean my heart isn't beating a trillion miles a minute from a simple arm crushing the bottom half of my nonexistent breasts.

Light shadows through the dusted drapes that clearly do nothing as I take deep breaths, toggling between keeping my eyes open and shutting them to savor this moment. I'd rather do none if I'm so dreadfully honest.

I'd rather not feel like I need to savor a moment that should've been natural and expected a week ago. Closing my eyes to ignore a sensation as comforting as Harry wrapping his arm around me? That's hellish within itself. It's not wrong. Being this close to Harry isn't wrong, right? Well, I suppose it is. Because I was never this close to Harry, I had gotten this close to Pretty Boy, who sadly no longer exists.

Truth be told, I never fell in love with Harry at all.

I fell in love with the version of Harry that fell in love with me.

That was selfish. God, I was so fucking selfish. But he wasn't a saint. He fell in love with Red, not Presley. And look at where we've landed? No nicknames to shield the fact that us two—Harry and Presley—are the most unlovable souls on this damn planet, and despite him holding me, I recognize an open gate. I'm not trapped under his arm but being let go.

"Do you ever stop thinking?"

And sentenced to Hell.

My body jolts to the side, eyes wider than the heart valve in my chest failing to work, as Harry's arm drops to the ground. Harry's arm...his voice, too. Both of his eyes are closed as he doesn't make an effort to move. I, on the other hand, being pressed against the edge of the bed like my life depends on it.

He was awake the entire time? Conscious of his actions? Oh, I should've been savoring. "If I stopped thinking," I start, hoping my voice doesn't give away my nerves, "then I'd be dead."

"Or depressed," Harry deadpans.

I think long and hard for about two seconds before shrugging. "Yeah, or depressed," I agree. "But I've been depressed before, and the only thing I did was think."