Coalescence ➳ H.S.

Fifteen: Old Times

Harry's POV

"Get out! Don't you fucking come back! I hate you! You can be god damn sure I won't come looking for you, you fucking piece of shit! I never want to see you again! Don't you fucking touch my family! I hope you die! Burn in hell, asshole! Have fun with that fucking bitch!"

It wasn't something you wanted to hear ringing in your ears, nor was it anything to be proud of. My life, I was certain, was going to be ephemeral as of now, and I couldn't shake the fact that I hit her.

I hit her.

I hadn't hit anybody before. I mostly blocked and tried to make myself seem bigger than the other guy, which only ever worked about half the time.

It didn't matter if I was able to get out of this position or not because the fact of the matter was that I was history to Sperling. Hergé had taken the SIM card out of my phone, leaving me with a plethora of photos of her and myself, and my wallet. I gave in to the temptation to file through the pictures of us.

She was far from perfect; if I were to describe her from an unbiased standpoint, I'd say she was a stubborn glutton that tried far too hard to impress people. But, also from an unbiased standpoint, she was able to stand up for herself. No matter how much she cared about me, she was straightforward and wouldn't put up with my shit. It was an admirable quality, especially when I considered how many people constantly fell prey to their significant other because they "cared" too much for them to say anything. Sperling cared about herself, and I was afraid that was all the caring she'd ever need. At any rate, I was far less independent than she was.

It never occurred to me how infatuated I was with Bria until now and it was undoubtedly due to the fact that she was all I'd ever known. I had nothing going for me until she pulled me into a spiralling cyclone of excitement—the type that fuelled adrenaline into your veins and made your stomach backflip several times—and showed me her view of the world.

That isn't to say I don't care about Bria. Something inside me told me that there was another layer to her change in personality, and no matter how much I wanted to ignore it and blame her for everything, it remained a tick at the back of my mind.

The sound of Sperling cursing me out continued to repeat in my head as I explored the room I was thrown into. It was luxurious, and had I been in any other position, it might've been somewhat nice, complete with everything the Bellagio's penthouse had. The repetition of Sperling's words went on for the next couple of days—I heard her when I was busy hacking the Chinese government, and then the Canadian government, just before I went to bed and right when I woke up, when I refused to eat, when I succumbed to eating, and especially in the spaces of time when I had nothing to do.

"Don't you fucking come back! I hate you!"

"I never want to see you again!"

"Burn in hell, asshole!"

After the first few days, things got worse. Not only did I hear her voice, I heard snippets of what she used to say to me.

"My favourite colour is yellow."

"I don't believe in promises, Styles, I told you that."

"Tell me about yourself. Your file only says so much."

"You're not doing this alone—"

"I care about you."

I hadn't seen Bria or her male accomplice in the duration I was working; food was sent into my room though a port in the door, so I had no way to leave the confines of the suite. Most of my time was spent laying about, or sitting on the shower floor, or staring at the painting of a flower vase on the wall. I was sitting in the floor in the foyer of the suite in front of a mirror staring at my reflection with utter disgust on day nine at Phoenix Industries. I recognized who this was: the stubble was starting to appear, my hair was getting greasy and threatening to grow longer; it was the Harry in jail. When and how did I let myself get this low? It was then that I thought back to all those months ago in prison; I thought back to the only thing that could help me cope with what was going on.