Rockstar- H.S.

chapter six

Harry's POV

Red. All I could see is red. Ears hot and stinging as they tend to do when I'm beyond pissed. I speed down the street, eager to get home and get hammered 

I know I just seem crazy. And maybe I fucking am.

She's probably confused and terrified right now, but I don't have the mental capacity to care. It's better to continue allowing her, along with everyone else, to believe I'm a psychotic douche than to explain why I reacted the way I did and why I am the way I am.

I know I'm a dick. I know I scare people away. That's the point and I will never explain myself to anyone. Especially not her.

She is going to be a pain in my ass the next few months. I mean, she already is, but I know it will only worsen. She can't stand me and I equally can't stand her.

Her snobbiness she expresses through judgmental glances and snide remarks. Her portrayed innocence. Her 'holier than thou' attitude. It's all enough to make me ill.

I've never met someone and immediately despised them. But I can confidentially say: I hate Roxanne Babes.

I pleaded with Grant repeatedly to choose another way, or at least another person. But he is adamant that she is the best candidate, plus I think he's been wooed by her.

He just goes on and on about how respectful and polite she is and how he wishes there were more people in the business like her. I think he even feels bad for her. She literally has a perfect life and career but little miss perfect feels 'trapped' and Grant feels sorry for her!

Like shut the fuck up man.

It doesn't matter though because the second this is over I never have to see that bitch again. Thank God.

I pull up the rain-coated driveway that leads to my house, pressing a button on the remote that opens the garage.

One of the doors slide up and display the empty spot where my corvette belongs. I pull the bright red vehicle into the garage then shut everything up before heading to my front door.

Rain sloshes around my vans, splashing water onto the end of my pant legs.

I type in the door code and enter, quickly shutting it behind me and b-lining for the kitchen. I mindlessly open the cabinet and swiftly pull out a glass as well as a bottle of whiskey.

This is my routine, it's a part of my everyday life. It's as natural to me as breathing. It's the only thing keeping me sane. The only thing keeping me from my dark past and the thoughts that come from it.

My past is a part of me I have tucked away and promised to never speak of or even think of.
My drinking habit started out as an outlet for my trauma.

The second a thought comes to mind? I drink.
Have a nightmare? drink.

But then it evolved. I realized that drinking actually did solve my problems. So I branched out. I wanted to determine if drinking worked for other issues I experienced.

Stressful day? drink.
Another scandal? drink.
Bored? drink.
Alive? Drink.

Some would call it a problem or addiction. But I don't believe that. Drinking is enjoyable to me. It's a part of who I am. I wouldn't be the same without it. And I don't ever intend to stop because it isn't an issue, it's a gift.

Trust that I am a much better person to be around when I'm drinking.

After finishing my third full glass of whiskey, the haze begins.

Yes, my favorite part.

I've mastered getting to the perfect level of obliteration without getting sick.

This may not be conventional and many would claim it to be unhealthy. But it's my life and I love the way things are. Because compared to me without alcohol, I'm a the best fucking person to exist. Maybe even Roxanne Babes level great.

I stumble out of the kitchen and fall onto the black couch in my living room. The cool leather presses against my face as I drift away.

And then my world goes black.