Background Noise [HS]

EIGHT

In the midst of a week before, Violet and Harry met for the first time. It was on that night that the blue spotlights inside the club clashed with a purple neon outside. She watched the colors play a light show across his face, remained enthralled by his mute and drunken presence. There was little there to be impressed by, at the time—the intoxicated interior and exterior of the male—though she fell entranced to aspects of both. And it was on that night that Harry's heavy frame found support in that of the little and weak Violet's.

Though, the morning after, he left like he never needed her. Would never need her.

This stung as Violet watched him go. He was more coordinated than just hours before, though still faltered a bit in shrugging on the strap of his guitar case whilst simultaneously ducking out of the small vehicle. The air in her throat nearly caught as he hit his head on the frame of the door. Her gaze followed him all the way to the sleek black of his Range Rover, tracked his lanky frame as it yanked open the driver door. A small, naive part of her anticipated a parting glance, a wave of appreciation sent her way for what she'd done.

Reality hit her hard when the door slammed shut, a barrier of impenetrable tint between them. Violet knew little of what occurred minutes later in the walls of his home, of the note left for her back at the music store.

Nate made sure of that. And it wasn't that he had some cliché boyish crush over her—no. The numerous nights spent walking his coworker to her car after hours provoked a sense of protectiveness over the girl. Something seemed to be troubling her lately. She spoke little of her problems, never pushed them onto others, though Nate believed he now knew what was bothering her so. And so when the man wrongly deemed the cause of her worry came striding in with his tattered boots and mop of rockstar hair, Nate hesitated little to chuck his only chance of reaching her into a trash can.

Truth be told, Violet stopped going to the club after the night she took Harry home. Things changed thereafter and it just didn't seem fitting to make the trip after work or during her days off, though she still thought of him from time to time. Their roles seemed to reverse, in those days, for she thought less of him and he more of her.

First impressions changed. She no longer saw him as beautiful inside and out, but battered. His sudden turn amidst alcohol frightening her, to say the least. All she tried to do was help the poor boy and he lashed out. They left things on an awkward note, one that prevented her from returning to the club and seeking him out. Violet was certain of his whereabouts each and every night, though made little effort to see him. After all, how could she?

He practically stormed out of her father's home without so much as a thank you for what she did.

The irony of it all was maddening, because each and every night, Harry would search for her among the crowd. It was a subconscious act that quickly turned habit. Finding bits and pieces of her dark hair in others, waiting for the moment they would turn around, preparing for the disappointment that hit harder with each reveal. He no longer looked for someone to take home, someone to suck him off in the bathroom or live out little rendezvous in the alleyway outside Club 102 because deep down, Harry knew of the way he was spiraling out of control.

And so he looked for someone that would care.

He looked for Violet.

The change in routine and breaking of habits had a consequential effect on him. Like a drug addict weaning themselves off their means of release, he shook uncontrollably at night and awoke with his skin coated in a sickly sweat, if he even slept at all. The bags beneath his eyes grew harsher at her absence, a dull shade of purple tainting the sunken area. He knew not why she stuck with him so, why such an innocent little girl seemed to taunt him in both dreaming and lying awake at night and all the way into the early hours of the morning.