May [H.S]

16 •

Harry
•••

Rien ne vaut son chez-soi.

Beads of sweat grace the tattooed skin of my back, cascading their way down my spine and flexing muscles, I uplift the entirety of my body weight with another pull-up. After each burning, rush of sore pain the whims clouding my storming head drift away. The demons are buried amongst the rubble, they too– wander out of fuzzy eyesight.

There were very few things that managed to alleviate me, and the majority of those things weren't entirely considered healthy. With the addition of my rocky state of mind, I figured it wouldn't be beneficial to indulge in the less principled ways to pacify myself. What would I be if I preached sobriety to the person I cared about the most while also falling victim to substance?

Sure, that was easier said than done. Especially since guilt kept a tight grasp on my throat, continually squeezing tighter with any vague reminder. Lying to myself– that I don't care and my actions are for the best. In the case of forcing Meg down the fire escape, they were justified. Even though no one will see it that way except me. And I'm okay with that, I have to be okay with it.

If she knew what I knew, she would agree too.

Rolling my shoulders, I pinch my eyes shut. They ache at the darkness, used to how the fluorescents sear and bug at them. Surely, anyone paying attention could see the lack of sleep staining all over my appearance, no one cared enough to look past the bright plum-colored bruises littering my face.

The imperfections distracted, passers didn't have the decency not to stare. I've become used to dirty looks from strangers– glaring, it's gained a sense of normalcy by now. The same from people that I once cared for– though, that picked away at me.

I didn't care to hide the fact I'd gotten my ass kicked– fair fight or not– If I'm honest my throbbing face and body were the least of my worries, overshadowed by guilt. That I couldn't understand, why was it that I only felt like shit because of what happened with Meg? Why couldn't I forget the rain in her hair, and the shivering of her dainty shoulders and the crept flush pinkening her cheeks? Glossy, round doll-like honey eyes.

As much as I rationalized what happened, I can't shake the guilt. No? It's 'cause you feel bad, asshole. Because I know a simple explanation would soothe it, help her understand why. And the truth was anything but simple.

The purple pigmentation crawls up my calves, in the fluorescents its vividness bites at my vision, way worse than it actually is. Darting my eyes up my frame, I watch sweat graze down the heaving of my bare chest, collecting at my abs.

It runs down my tattoos, raindrops on a foggy window. Tracing each drip, I find myself transported in my apartment, thunder beckons the bones in my body. Aching but numbed from the extensive amount of liquor I'd consumed. Swearing each consistent pit and patter are wallowing voices. The unkept snore sounding from underneath the warmth of the covers is the only thing to break it up, to diminish my vices. A fast asleep fallen angel, swimming in a lulled ocean of tranquility.

Such a blatant juxtaposition; a sleeping beauty, falling deeper into a twisted trance, and the knight fighting off his demons as she rests– foolishly unaware.

My eyes snap to the reflection past me as a flinch tenses my muscles, I'm speechless for a split second. Wondering how the universe was reading my mind, gifting my daydreams right to me– fully lucid. The sound of shoes scuffling on the mats breaks my attention, and funneling it onto the figure, staring right at me in the large mirrors.

"Who told you I was here?" I say passively, remaining in trepidatious eye contact, they don't respond quickly. Swept up in gawking, and if it were anyone else I would deem it rude– with her it was anything but that; a blessing.