Petal [h.s.]

SIX - BRIGHT BLOODY RED FLAGS

*This chapter involves mentions of a history of self harm (not detailed descriptions of it), which may be triggering to some.

"If you hit me in the head with one more dildo..."

"This is literally your job."

"It's my job to get hit in the head with phallic shaped toys?"

"How else are you supposed to get to know the product?"

"Any other way, River. If you... get that away from my mouth! I don't even like those!" Buffy screeched, but she was laughing, which made me smile and shake my head.

I was holed up in my office but had the door cracked so I could listen in on River's first official day training with Buffy, as I knew it would go exactly how it's going. River's an amazing employee, but a terrible flirt and it was impossible to make him be serious about anything.

"River! No throwing the products!" I called out, letting my eyes scan over an invoice.

"Yes, mommy!" He yelled back sarcastically.

I despised the business part of owning a business. The accounting and the purchasing and the management side of things. The part where I have to play every role and take care of everything myself. It wasn't that I didn't trust River, because I did, but I trusted myself more. It was a small business and I felt like I could handle it all, I felt like the busier I stayed, the better.

When I was filling out a bunch of purchase orders and sifting through every invoice that hit my desk, I wasn't thinking about Harry. In fact, the only time that I wasn't thinking about him was when I buried myself in my work.

The weekend crawled by without incident, without any Celine Dion coming from his place, without any complaints about my music or any general noise I made coming from him. I was surprised by that, because I'd been extra loud every time Finn fucked me over the weekend. I was looking for a fight, but I'd never admit that out loud to anyone.

Each night, around 10 p.m., when Finn was still at Pink Couch working, I'd sit against the wall I shared with Harry and listen to his records play softly on the other side.

They were so soothing, so quiet, so magical. They made me forget for a few moments just how sharp around the edges I was. Over the weekend, I'd begun using his nightly album as a distraction from my urges, repeatedly twisting at the hair tie around my wrist to prevent myself from doing something else.

It had been 344 days since I last hurt myself. Almost an entire year, the longest I'd ever gone. I was proud of myself, but also on edge at all times, because now that there were new changes and stressors in my life, I knew relapse was more likely than not. Everyone expected me to be better now and the closer I got to one year, the more pressure I felt to make it happen. I hoped that I could. I didn't want any more scars, I had enough.