Perspective

Chapter Seventy Four.

"Jealousy, turning saints into the sea

Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis
But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes, 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside"

Song: Mr. Brightside - Run River North

*WARNING*

Domestic Violence.

(Also previous chapter includes recaps if you need it)

*****

HARRY POV:

England 2014

(Four Years Prior.)

My head fucking hurts.

I do this to myself though, I never seem to bloody learn.

I'm half leaning out of my window of this apartment, staring down at the traffic trying not to vomit onto it.

This cigarette isn't helping either, but it's all I've got going for me right now.

It's 11am, I woke up on the bathroom floor near the toilet again.

The sound of the front door opening ends with it slamming shut and it makes my eyes squeeze shut.

Now I think I'm going to vomit again, but not from the alcohol.

She's only just getting home. Again.

Her heels hitting against the hardwood floor sound like nails on a chalkboard, and my brain feels like it's throbbing with a heartbeat in my skull.

"Are you kidding me Harry?" Her voice is raised, and I hear her foot kick the glass bottles I'd left lying on the floor near the couch.

Polishing off a bottle and half of vodka in one evening, it'd be impressive if that wasn't usual for me these past few months.

"Morning to you too baby," I mumble with a drag of my cigarette, not bothering to look at her.

I'm delaying the sinking in my stomach as much as I can.

"What did I say fucking about smoking those filthy things inside?" She snaps, and I roll my eyes as I take another drag.

"I'm not, I'm smoking out of the window."

Something hard hits my back, making me curse a loud "fuck", while pain shoots up my spine. I hear the bottle hit the floor as I pull my head in from the window, and just as I turn around; I flinch to the side as another glass bottle comes flying at me but smashes against the wall next to me.

"What the fuck Kara?" I shout at her, looking to the vodka bottle on the ground then to the shattered glass from the one she smashed.

This is not helping my hangover.

But hey at least it took a few minutes before she started smashing shit this time.

She's standing in her work clothes, fresh faced and her hair down.

There's my wife. Not with the makeup she was wearing yesterday or the way her hair was styled up in a bun. Wrinkled clothes.

Piss poor attempt to even button her blouse properly.