Detrimental [H.S.]

𝟷𝟼 - ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ?

My delicate hands stayed still on his warm, large ones, as I leaned in front of him, trying to understand what he said. I looked deeply into his eyes, as my eyebrows furrowed slightly. The air in the room felt as if it had dropped a hundred degrees. The only sound was his heavy drunk breathing with my faint breathing.

"Harry." I slightly quivered. "Harry who is alive? who is she? Talk to me." I tried to reason with him.

He was still staring at me with no movement. His hands stayed still underneath mine, as I looked into his eyes. They were a shade of forest green, lost filled within.

This wasn't like the Harry I knew. The Harry I knew was someone people feared. The Harry I knew was intimidating at all times. The Harry I knew dug a knife into my bare, soft skin for entertainment.

It felt weird talking down to him like this. All of this was weird. His face held a dull expression the entire time. Whoever she was, pulled a number on him... big time.

Maybe it was an ex that he thought died?

I snapped back from my thoughts to find Harry still staring at me, same position, same dull expression.

"Harry, please. Tell me who she is." I begged, looking to get something out of him.

But not a single movement was made from him. Not even a little flinch.

The look in his eyes evidently gave away he was lost in his own thoughts. I couldn't make myself to hold onto the stare much longer, so I brought my attention back to the empty bottle of bourbon.

There weren't any shots or cups laying around so I assumed he just drank straight from the bottle. I tried to entertain my eyes anywhere around the room.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

There was no point in trying with him. I would be here all night trying to get a word out of him. I decided to try one last time.

I looked back at the same position. "Help me understand Harry, who is she and what do you mean she's alive?"

I stared at him for a few silent seconds before I decided to give up.

The moment I made my mind, I brought my hands up from over his hands. Our touch was lost and that's when Harry finally moved his tattooed hands.

I guess when I lifted my hands from his, he snapped out of his drunk-filled thoughts.

"Harry?" I looked, stopping my movement.

He was slowly getting out of it as he started to realize his situation.

"Harry," I said more of a statement this time. This time he looked at me at my eyes, consciously, in response.

"Who is she?" I said for the last and final time.