Winter Air [H.S.]

Thirty-Nine

The pesky sound of the high pitched alarm clock screeched throughout the darkness. A low grumble of a groan escaped the mountain of sheets and pillows that were toppled over the king sized bed. A lanky arm reached out from under the rubble and searched blindly for the maker of the high pitched beeps. Not once did Harry look out from under the pillows and blankets, but was still able to turn off the alarm clock. 

It was the second day in May, and it was the day that Harry was dreading. He knew that the time that he would be moving to Los Angeles for the summer had finally hit. He climbed out of his bed and shuffled his feet towards the kitchen. He pulled out a mug from the highest cabinet and poured some water into the kettle. A few minutes later, a mug of steaming tea and a bowl of cereal were sitting in front of him. He stared into space - something he had quickly grown accustomed to doing. It wasn't like he was thinking about anything, or that his thoughts were going a mile a minute. In reality, his mind was blank. In fact, his whole body was blank and numb. He had been like that for the span of April. He had found himself in a funk and quickly grew into a routine. 

Every  morning he rolled out of bed at ten past nine, put the kettle on, poured himself a bowl of corn flakes, and stared out into a blank abyss. Each morning he did that. It was a routine that he had grown to know too well. His ever y day life was the same. It had been since the break up. He had gone through all the stages of grieving the breakup.

First he was in denial. He couldn't admit to himself that she broke up with him. He didn't want to admit that she ended things. He was in way too deep. Women would throw themselves at him at bars, but instead of going back to their place to do whatever they wanted with him, he told them he was in a relationship. He knew that he wasn't. She made that clear to him when she told him to leave that day, but he would deny it. He didn't want to let her go. But at the end of it all, he knew he lost her.

The next stage was anger. That was a stage he had grown to know too well. Throughout the week that he endured this stage of grief, he drank too much alcohol and smoked way too many cigarettes. He broke too many glasses, and punched too many holes into his wall. He was angry that she would dump him like that, over something that he did for her. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. He couldn't comprehend why she would leave him over something that he did for her; that he did for them. He kept questioning her love for him. If you truly, fervently, unconditionally love somebody, you don't let them go so easily. You don't drop them at the smallest lie or conflict. You fight for them. But she didn't. She let him walk away and never once called him back. He hated her for that. It drove him mad to know that he was nothing to her. It drove him to the point of anger. 

The next stage, and the stage that Harry was currently stuck on (and couldn't seem to break from) was depression. Once the denial left and the anger subsided, he felt his body morph into a state of numbness. Everything became one big routine. He got up, ate, went out to see Rose, went back home, wrote, went to bed, and repeated it the next day. Sleep in itself was a struggle. Whenever he would close his eyes, her face would appear. The way she would smile at his corny jokes or crude innuendos, or the way her nose would crinkle when she laughed too hard, or the way she fit perfectly in his arms as they would sleep the night away- all of these things that he loved so much about her, would play whenever he tried to sleep. She had consumed all of him. She was in his dreams, in his nightmares, and in his daydreams. He couldn't shake her away. It came to the point that he would close his eyes and not even bother fighting it any more. It hurt too much to even try. 

He loved her. Hell, he was still in love with her. She was his- no matter what she would say. 

As angry as he would try to stay at Ava, the anger would never last. He knew that he was in too deep. But the more that he thought about going back to her would cause a vile taste to creep up his throat.