portlyn villa//H.S

pierre

i danced with the desert in
the pouring rain
...
he's kinda quiet but his body ain't

violetta fern 

his name was harry.

he didn't seem like a harry to me in the slightest, he just seemed like styles, like a cold man who had no intention of thinking about the girl living across the hall. i did see a softer side of him when we met that niall fellow with big blue eyes and beautiful blonde hair, but even then he isn't the most ideal.

i was just finishing up my unpacking when he finally woke up this morning around nine, his breakfast i had made us still sitting on the counter and i can hear him put it in the microwave as i giddily open up my paints, shifting on the balls of my feet and i pick at the bandage that harry had delicately put on my scar, my hands shaking.

i open the lid of the expensive paints, smiling to myself but my heart sinks into my stomach when i see them all dried, my hand stopping it's picking and i slam the lid shut, running a hand down my face and i rip the bandage off of my face in one action, rubbing my quickly watering eyes.

i just wanted to paint, and try and forget about this.

growing up was really hard. my dad wanted sons, not daughters, and because of that i was put in situations i never wanted to be in before, all including my dad and his friends or workers, they all were the reason i hated living in the same house as my dad, and now i feel so lonely.

it's like having a man right across the hall with big beautiful eyes is someone, but the way he never acknowledges my being is more lonesome than actually being alone. i step out of my room, picking at the scar and i step into the kitchen, harry leaning against the counter in a tee shirt and sweats, his hair messily tucked behind his ears and i stare at the floor.

"can we go somewhere today?" i say quickly, his head snapping up from his phone to look at me, and he furrows his eyebrows, staring at my raw scar, blowing out a huff. "why?" he says back and i pick at my jaw again.

"my paints were ruined...theres an art shop up the hill i was hoping we could go to," i whisper and he looks outside, squinting at the fall sun as the microwave rings and he takes out the plate, setting it on the counter.

"in an hour," he mumbles, walking past and i flinch at the sound of his door slamming, my shoulders dropping as i walk back to my room to get dressed, my hair up in a huge curly bun, but i take it down and tie the front pieces back, hearing harry rummage around in his room.

sharing a bathroom with a man is odd.

he takes long showers a night, and brushed his teeth for an extremely long time before he wakes up fully, and i have never seen that man put his hair up, even when it hangs in his face. he's so quiet and...mean in a way. it makes me feel like a burden how he acts around me and treats me, but when he put that bandage on me a couple days ago it made me feel a little better i guess.

niall was funny, and seeing harry show some sort of emotion was giving me confidence that i was going to be okay here, in portlyn villa. it took harry a few days but he finally told me where we were, and even laid more rules down. i felt like i couldn't even go outside without him telling me i was doing something i wasn't supposed to. i know it's just his job, and he's here to keep me safe from any more attacks, but i feel more scared of him than i do anyone else right now.

"let's go," harry says as he steps out of his room, a pair of washed jeans and a thick sweater on him now as i tied my shoes, nodding at him as i grab my wallet. i follow him out to the car, getting in and he stays silent as we drive, never even moving a muscle besides his jaw clenching. "why'd you tell niall your name was violet?" harry says and i flinch at the sudden noise, my eyes going to him and he keeps his eyes steady on the road.