[COMPLETED] where she sat and ate her strawberries, while he smoked his cigarettes.
-harry styles au
-set in summer of 1998
-mentions rape, sexual assault, abuse, fighting, and suicide
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~Harry~
The morning after a nightmare is always the worst. His head is pounding, his eyes are swollen, and his checks are stiff from the tears he hadn't wiped when they were falling the night before.
He feels fuzzy, almost as if he were floating.
At first he is always confused, not remembering the night terror when he first wakes up.
He looks around the room before carefully examining his body in search of any self harm he had done the night before without knowing it. A sigh escapes his lips as he sees the palms of his hands have fresh cuts from his fingernails, assuming that was from his subconscious trying anything to wake himself.
He looks at his stomach, only to see red and puffy scratches knowing his suspicions true. Then it all comes back.
The shouts, screams, cries, and hits.
He shakes his head roughly, instantly regretting it as pain shoots through his skull and through the back of his eyes. A hiss escapes his lips as he quickly places his hands on his forehead, groaning a bit as he does.
He forces himself to sit up on his bed as he sees his bedding thrown roughly onto the floor along with a pillow that he sleeps with at night. His fitted sheet is coming up on all corners except for one, his mattress sliding off the bed frame from his vicious turns throughout his dream.
He stays still for a moment trying to piece together what had happened the night before, trying not to remember vivid details of the dream, knowing he wasn't ready to relive those yet.
He thinks of his mother who even though he had been such a dick to her, she still came to comfort him when he was scared. Because that's all Harry ever is when he is in that state... absolutely terrified out of his mind.
He feels as though he is a little boy again, afraid to leave his bed and immediately he is ashamed of himself.
You're not that kid anymore, he tells himself harshly, grow the fuck up.
He stands up to fix the bed. Pushing the mattress carefully back onto the bed frame, before fixing his sheets, huffing loudly as they continue to pop back up with every move he makes.
He is finally able to fix the sheet, as he grabs the blanket and pillow from the ground, placing them gently onto his bed, his bed now being made for the first time in about a year.
When he finally makes his way down stairs, he is emotionless, but not in his typical way. It is almost as if he is just a shell of his body. There are no rude remarks, quick jabs, or sarcastics comebacks.
It's silence.
He aimless roams around the kitchen trying to find something to fill his hungry stomach, settling for a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast.
