Vigilante | H.S.

100 | Nothing

November 19th.
2 months later.

Diana De Angelais

Southern France.

That's where Harry and I lived for the past three months, in the villa. The one he rented out the first time he took me here. When I had begged him to just stay there, we could get Donut and it could just be the three of us. Harry reminded me that day that it wasn't possible for us to just drop everything and move here, but he promised me, one day we would, when it was safe. I told him I understood that moving to France with him was just a silly dream I had.

But made that dream come true.

I was living in my dream home, living my dream life with Harry and Donut, the dream life that I talked about my entire life. Harry had given me everything I could ever ask for and more, he made me feel loved, safe, happy.

He made all my dreams come true.

But despite all that, the past three months have been hell.

It's hard adjusting — trying to feel normal again after everything we went through.

We both had our good days and our bad days.

Most of my days were bad.

Whether it was.   waking up in the middle of the night, screaming, crying, trying to get the hands off me that weren't there. I'd have dreams about Stefan, James, all the men that touched me, hit me, fucking tortured me. I thought the night terrors I used to have were bad, but the dreams I used to have were a walk through the park compared to the ones I had now.

Harry would try his best to comfort me, like he was always so good at. Except now I wouldn't let him touch me, because I never knew if I was awake or not, feeling his hands made everything ten times worse. When he would normally hug me, press three gentle kisses to my forehead and trace his fingers over my spine to calm me down — he couldn't touch me anymore, and he struggled to know how to calm me down.

And if it wasn't the dreams, it was the panic attacks.

The smallest things could set me off. Being in a room that was too small, all I could see was myself chained back up in that bed with no light, no food, no water and only my own thoughts like I was for that month. I couldn't be in a room with the door locked, every door had to be cracked open in the slightest, because all I could feel was the terror of being locked up for so long. Or loud noises. Something as simple as the wind blowing the doors shut, dropping things. I'd curl up into a ball, shaking and crying, not able to catch my breath for what felt like an eternity, I felt like I could never get out of the panic.

My body was littered with scars, small cuts and marks covering my entire body, The worst one is the gunshot wound on my stomach. The light pink scar of uneven scarred skin. I hated it. I couldn't look at myself without feeling those marks getting left on me again. Sometimes I swore I could actually feel their hands on me again. I could feel myself dying in Harry's arms while he tried to tell me it was going to be okay.

I felt ugly.

I had completely lost myself.

And I was so scared of losing Harry too.

I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. We lived on a beachfront villa, and I had never once gone to the water. Even on the hottest days, I'd wear the thickest or baggiest sweaters and sweatpants. I wanted to cover myself completely. I didn't want to see the shape of my body or any of the damage done to it. I didn't feel like I belonged in my own skin.

I didn't let Harry see me anymore.

We didn't shower together like we always used to. I didn't even get dressed in front of him. The first time I'd asked him to leave when I was getting dressed, his face fell, and he looked heartbroken. He tried to hide it, but I could see it hurt him. Not because he wanted to see me, but it hurt him to know that I hated my body so much that I wouldn't even let him be in the room when I was getting dressed.