✓ Wrong Moves and Knife Wounds /h.s./

[02] analytical psychology and numbered paper

bar

There's a drink in front of him. That's how it's been for the past three hours. The cubed ice he requested in the beer has long since melted and lips haven't once grazed the glass. He's been staring at the counter, the wall, the sweaty skin of everyone in the bar who's been sitting next to him.

He doesn't look anyone in the eyes. He doesn't talk to anybody. Harry has mastered the art of ignoring people. But he's been sitting on the seat an hour more than he normally does and his glass of beer isn't empty. His eyes aren't on the counter or the walls or the sweaty skin of everyone in the bar who's been sitting next to him. His eyes are on the book on the counter.

It reads Analytical Psychology and he huffs some air from his cheeks as he stares at it. Like it's judging him. He hasn't felt judged since months ago.

The whole town has tried to pick him up after Penelope. His whole town has tried to lie to him through their teeth and words of, "it wasn't your fault," and, "no one sees you differently."

He doesn't like being lied to and having no one but him see the truth. Maybe if Penelope were here she'd tell him how horrible of a person he is. She always did that. Pen was the only honest person he ever knew and he killed her.

His hand reaches for the book and he lifts it so he can better read its contents. There are names like Freud and Jung and all of the other names his doctor used to analyze his innocence in court.

He flips through pages before reading one title that catches his eyes. The Minds of Criminals. Harry's stomach twists.

"That's mine," a voice says from behind him. It's small and quiet. So unearthly calming that he cringes before turning to look at her.

"Yeah," his throat is dry. "Yeah, here. Sorry, it looked interesting."

"It is," she confirms quietly, walking over to the seat beside him. Her eyes are brown, really dark, but there are lighter specks around her irises. He thinks he's seen prettier. Her hair is pulled behind her head and tied with a band. Harry sees that some of her hair is tucked behind her ear, reminding him of something Penelope had said when she was alive about bangs. Something about them being a hassle when she didn't want them in her eyes. "Body language and stuff. Takes you right into the minds of so many different people."

She's smiling now. Harry feels trapped because it's genuine and he doesn't think he likes it. He feels guilty for being able to make someone smile.

"Are you interested in the individual psyche?"

He considers the answer for a moment. He shouldn't want to know more about people because that means figuring everything out. If you can crack the code on one person, you can crack the code on anybody. Harry doesn't want to know more about Penelope than he already does. He's afraid of going back and looking back at everything that gives him nightmares.

He's afraid of knowing why she always used to sit on the roof of her apartment building throwing rocks at birds or how she used to purposely bite down into his bottom lip because, 'I like knowing how much of a mess I can make you.'

Harry's afraid of remembering how many times he told her he loved her and how many times she responded with, 'somebody has to.'

He loves her, but looking into everything about her makes him feel like she'd somehow lose the only person who thinks she didn't want to be put in the ground.

But as he opens his mouth to say something in her favor, he gets stuck looking at dark brown eyes and light specks and he finds himself nodding. The girl in front of him looks hopeful and he's stressed out, but he says, "I guess," and it's practically like giving the only shred of sanity he has left away.

It's an unspoken promise to Pen that he will find her out and he will try to understand her. Try to understand why she never bothered to save his number in her contacts or how she never told him her birthday but carried birthday candles in the back pocket of her jeans every first of July. "We can help each other out, yeah? I have this psyche final in a few weeks and quizlet is nice, but not as interactive as an actual person."

"You want me to help you study?"

She tilts her head to the side, lips rolling as she watches him tentatively. "What's wrong with you?" She mumbles quietly, narrowing her eyes on his.

"Don't do that please," he turns away quickly to disconnect their eyes. "Don't analyze me."

He stands up and drops a ten dollar bill on the counter before walking toward the entrance. With his head hung and mouth dry, he bursts into the stale, cold air and pushes his back against the wall, not liking the feeling of being under a magnifying glass again.

"Take my number," a voice says gently beside him. He curses under his breath with a shake of his head.

"I don't want your number," he tells her as politely as he can muster. He feels dirty and guilty and maybe it was a bad idea to go out. The feeling isn't as foreign to him as it should be. He's been feeling dirty and guilty for more than a year now and no matter how hard he's scrubbed at his skin, it won't go away. Sometimes he stays in his shower for more than two hours dragging his nails against his skin when he thinks his wash cloths don't work well. Sometimes blood catches under his nails and his mind tricks him into thinking it's Penelope's blood and not his. "I don't think I want anything from you."

"What's got you so scared?"

"Stop dissecting me," he hisses aloud, looking up at the sky and folding his arms around his chest. He wants to pull at his hair but he's afraid she'll find him out. Say something like, 'now I know what you did,' and he just wants to go home. "I don't like that. I don't-"

"I'm only in my first semester. I barely know anything about human behavior yet, so if that's what's wrong, I won't go so far."

He takes a step forward and lifts a hand to hail a cab, fingers shakily moving in the air. "I'm going home."

She touches his chest and it takes him a moment to realize she's giving him something. His hand latches onto the small piece of paper and he frowns at the small numbers inked across it.

"If you ever need to talk or want to go out for a drink."

"I like drinking alone." He promises, though his hand drops the paper into his pocket just as a car speeds to a stop right in front of him.

"So do I. Call me whenever."