masochist // h.s

25; BAD NEWS AND BITTER REUNIONS

:: 25

an aching heart

a pounding headache

-

/ florence /

The next thing I knew, he had sealed his lips gently with mine and knocked every wisp of air from my lungs. I pulled away before I wanted to, eyes fluttering and all. I inhaled sharply. Warmth spread through my entire body. My lips parted. His mingled.

My arms reached up and locked around Harry's neck. And suddenly, I grew aware of my heart plummeting in my chest, of the blood thundering in my ears, of Harry's silhouette right in front of me, tightening up, becoming still.

He caught my eye and laid his thumb on my lower lip. It seemed of utmost urgency to me, that I not stir. But how could I possibly sit there unmoving with his emerald-rimmed eyes boring into mine, and my face tingling and a fire burning deep within the pit of my belly?

He leaned closer. I wanted to close my eyes but somehow I didn't. When his lips were almost touching mine, I splayed my hand across his chest. I shook my head. Harry shifted uncomfortably on his bed.

"I have to go," I muttered as I eyed the clock in Harry's bedroom.

His face dropped for a second, before he let his hand fall to my shoulder. He nodded.

I grabbed my bag from his carpeted floor and slung it over my arm. "I'm going to see my parents," I huffed, "they planned some brutal family dinner for tonight."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, y-you should go," he said in a strained voice, bobbing his head understandingly. "You wouldn't wanna be late."

I slid my hand in my back pocket and looked around in discomfort. "Right."

"Right," he smiled weakly.

We both laughed softly, nervously, but briefly this time. And when he walked me out the door and I stepped outside, I was grateful to see that the sky had dimmed, that I wouldn't have to meet Harry's eyes in broad daylight.

-

The trip home lasted three hours. The house looked exactly as it did when I left. Nothing new, nothing different. Except the walls. They looked, actually felt, weaker as though at any given moment it might just collapse into a pile of rubble and debris. The lights never flickered or dimmed, there was no crack in the plaster, and my mother's china collection looked inexorably untouched.

Gazing down at my food, I slowly picked at it with my fork. I sighed, wondering when this stupid thing was going to end.

"Florence, is there something wrong?" my father cooed softly as his eyes crinkled in worry. His hand gestured to the food on my plate. "You're not eating anything."

On the other side of the table, my mother examined me cautiously as if there was something wrong, something abnormal. She reached her hand to cup my face. "Oh honey--"

I recoiled from her touch, shoving my plate away. "I'm not hungry," I muttered as I felt their eyes, their scrutinizing looks on me. "Pretty stuffed on bullshit."

My mother gasped, "Florence Quinn, that is no way to speak to your--"

"Your mother and I know you're upset," my father interrupted, attempting reason. He shared a not-so-secretive look with my mother before enclosing an affectionate hand around mine. He shrugged nonchalantly, "maybe there are some things you want to talk to us about?"

"Like who I'm going to live with after college? After you get divorced?" I scoffed. "Is there even a third option? Because you both make me want to kill myself."

There it was again. The minutely worried glances. The bouts of disappointment and hopelessness. The moments of nervous hesitation.

"Is that what you guys are afraid of?" I laughed tauntingly, shaking my head. "Why else would you want to try and actually deal with the problem? "

My mother looked down, unnerved and completely deposited in her own silence. Whereas, my father attempted his endless concerted efforts of consolation. Try as he may, each time is as futile as the next.

"I haven't been a perfect father, Florence. I know that." he began slowly. "I want you to know that I know that."

I felt like a shard of glass had just been lodged up my throat. I felt suffocated and absently picked at my fingernails.

Sighing, "What happened to you?" my father continued, as he looked at me again in that way. "You never call. You barely eat; these are real textbook signs of depression."

My mother looked up from her hands. She nodded, "We are very concerned for you, Flor."

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" my father narrowed his eyes, reaching to touch my shoulder.

"You're doing it again! Both of you!" I exclaimed, my eyes scanning them back and forth. "You look at me like some burden, an object of senseless pity!"

They remained silent. Hands poised on the table. Idle. Frazzled. I clutched the leather from under my seat and dug my nails into it, hard.

"Look, you guys drag me all the way out of town to give you some 'time' together to save our family, then you decide to break up." I said, feeling a bubble of anger and disdain surge right through me. "You buy a house, a family historic, one that I actually like, then you're telling me you're selling it, without even asking me what I want."

"So fine," I shrugged my shoulders, throwing my napkin on the table. "I am depressed. But I'm not going to off myself."

I dragged my chair backwards, which released a screechy moan. It seemed so loud and disruptive in the quietness, the confrontational silence of the room. I got up, grabbed my coat and bag from the foyer. "So, now," I jeered with a voice full of scorn, "you can finally go back to your policies of benign neglect."

-
a/n:

hellooooo

thank u for reading , pls pls vote and comment if u liked it

also thank u sm for 16k reads !!!

ps doesn't the guy in the header actually look like harry styles ??? or is that just me omfg. the resemblance is truly uncanny