The Drive-In | l.s.

chapter 9.

you're responsible for how long you let what hurt you, haunt you.

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Harry awoke from his sleep covered in beads of sweat. He looked around, having forgotten where he was, before his eyes finally adjusted to the dark and he began to recognize his cozy apartment.

Harry's breathing was heavy as he was becoming incredibly hot. He immediately reached for his white tee, pulling it up and over his head before tossing it to the floor. He snatched the water bottle from his nightstand and chugged it down in almost three seconds.

He was on fire.

He needed air.

He jumped up from his twin bed and reached up for the ceiling fan and the lights. He flinched, squinting as the now lighted room became visible. It was then that he looked down and saw his flaming bare arm. Harry gasped, screaming in pain.

He went to place his right hand over his ignited skin but only screamed louder as he touched his flesh, bringing more pain. Tears began to stream down the poor boy's face as the pain was killing him.

He ran into his kitchen, biting down so hard on his bottom lip that he knew for a fact that it would soon be bruised. He threw open the door to his freezer and pulled out an ice pack hoping it would cool down his arm.

Him and Louis had both taken some pills from Rue's purse that night to relieve their allergic reactions. They apparently did not work.

He set the ice against his skin and waited, crying. Nothing happened.

Harry yelled out in frustration after what seemed like forever. He threw the ice pack against the wall and sunk to the floor, staring at his arm. Harry thought that maybe his tears were blurring his vision because he almost saw something beginning to appear on his skin.

Harry blinked, clearing his eyes. He looked again and this time he was certain he had lost his mind. He stood up almost jumping away from what he was seeing. Black lines appearing then disappearing from his skin, as if blinking at him.

"What is happening to me?" Harry cried out, breaking down.

He screamed out in pain, feeling as if someone were drawing along his skin with a knife. He felt the blade cutting down along his wrist. Felt it turn back and curve against his flesh, digging deeper and deeper.

And Harry cried, sinking back down to the floor.

The pain must have been so intolerable for the boy, that it knocked him out and only left him alone the following morning.

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This time Harry was woken up by the sunshine beaming in through his blinds and the birds singing just outside his window.

He rubbed at his eyes due to his lack of sleep. He heard soft purring before his cat, Richard, jumped onto his comforter - in search of some early morning petting.

Yes, Harry liked the concept of giving his cats actual names, it made him giggle.

Only his pup Auggie was able to escape the horrible names.

"Well hello Richard." Harry cooed softly, reaching over to lift the animal up gently and lay him across his chest.

Harry laid back against the headrest, closing his eyes as he raked his fingers through his cat. He allowed the low purring to relax him.

The boy's eyes fluttered open once again as he finally lifted himself to sit back up; Richard in his arms. Just as he was placing him down against his bedsheets, Harry paused.

In pure shock, he dropped Richard.

Although it was against his very soft comforter, in other occasions Harry would have reacted. Apologizing to his friend instantly. Right now, however, he was completely frozen.

Harry stared down at nothing but ink. Ink covering his left wrist. Harry tried to remember at what point during the night did he get up to grab a marker and doodle on himself but his mind was completely blank.

He brought his right thumb to his lips, licking it, before wiping the saliva across the drawing.

"Damnit."

His wiping became more vicious as he basically scrubbed at his skin, trying to get the ink off his arm.

"Do I even own a permanent marker?" Harry asked himself. He had stopped scrubbing and was now staring at his wall, deep in thought. He sighed.

"Fuck." He cursed again as he climbed off his bed and made his way over to the desk right beside his bedroom door. He pulled open every single drawer, rummaging through them trying to find the marker that could have been used.

Harry lived alone and he was friends with none of his neighbors so it wasn't like someone could have came in the middle of the night and planted this on him.

Rue maybe? He thought but then shook his head. She would never put this much effort nor make this far of a trip.

Harry looked down at the drawing again. He lifted his hand so the picture was upright and could be clearly seen. This was no doodle. Harry couldn't even draw a simple stick figure, let alone what appeared to be a beautifully done anchor. It was so well done with so much detail that it left him in awe.

Whoever drew this on him was indeed talented. Not Harry. Not Rue.

Harry brought his arm closer to his face, examining it very thoroughly. His face scrunched in confusion as he turned his arm horizontally to look from another angle. The texture seemed different. The ink wasn't on his skin. It was in it.

"Holy..."

"Shit." An older boy said to himself from his own bedroom miles away.

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