Dealing With Absence » h. styles au

4ᵀᴴ CHAPTER

Q.N. (Quick Note): I don't know why you're all so confused with my new way of writing. I understand I didn't write in 3rd person on DMG, but I'm gonna do it from now on. The reason? With a narrator I can mention facts that happened, but went unnoticed by my characters. This way they will still be oblivious to it, but my readers won't. *wink wink*

                                                         4ᵀᴴ CHAPTER

               

    “Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savouring of loneliness”

 

Harry hates the bitter taste of warm mornings and hates being so haggard when he’d had a whole of three years to get over his shit and move on. And the fact that he quite hasn’t, yet, is simply upsetting.

The sound of the old fan rotating above his head is not really comforting, either, and he knows he should be happy he managed to find a place he can actually afford a breakfast, and although the place is not exactly the fanciest, it’s quiet and plain and calm and he can just sit across the table and stare out the window without bothering with people’s low talking buzzing his ears. But the window is fogged with crusted dust, and, honestly, Harry hates having to squint his eyes to get to see through it, and yet, not neatly. He hates feeling the warm air hitting his skin harder because that’s the only purpose those fans seem to have, really (and no, he won’t take off his damn wool sweater because the fact that he’s almost in combustion has absolutely nothing to do with it).

Harry hates that it’s still too freaking early in the morning, and there the sun is, shining blindingly low in the sky, making him feel like he’s only centimetres away from the actual star; he hates how he can feel the scrutinising look of that young woman and the old one, back in what he supposes is the kitchen, even though he can’t see them and most likely they can’t see him either.

But at the moment, Harry just really hates every single thing, so.

He chews his eggs silently, and albeit they’re too salty, he won’t complain. Has no right nor patience to do so, so restrains himself to simply stare. And stare. And stare.

There’s a carwash right across the street, he sees, and there is one car waiting for its turn, which quite surprises Harry, considering how empty the street is. It’s probably one of those hidden dusty roads that lead to the main city, though, where people go through all the time even though they don’t really stop by. (Harry can’t be sure; he hasn’t been properly out in London it’s been three years and he’s never been good with maps or memorising apparent useless things, so. – It’s not that useless, either, he knows, but try to tell a kid he should know the main routes of his country when he doesn’t even have a car nor any clues of how much he might want to car travel a few years ahead).

Harry just loses himself in pathetic thoughts, most of the time. It’s something he’s learned with being ignored at rehab. Don’t mind him.

He sips his tea after gobbling down the bacon (not really a good choice of a mix, if you ask him), and at least that is good; his tea makes him feel warm and cosy, makes him feel back home at his mum’s house. Brings him back to the mornings where he would wake up with wet kisses pressed to his forehead and right after a pillow shoved down his face; he’d blink his eyes open after five full minutes of groaning, and then he would see his mother at his left side on the bed, and his sister grinning evilly at him from the right one (she’d always be standing, though, just so it would be easier for her to walk away once he was fully awake and annoyed at 8a.m.)