Leader Of The Mafia {h.s}

015

Bree Tyler

As I unlocked my brown irises with Harrys emerald eyes, I swallowed the lump in my throat. My eyes were burning too see his again and I bet his were burning too see mine again as well.

"So, movie?" I broke the unsettling silence.

"Yep." Harry said in a croaked voice, as I heard the flick of the channels and static as each channel was turned on and off using the plastic remote.

"Why do you live in the middle of nowhere?" I asked, making conversation while trying to keep myself from looking at him at all times.

"Life would be too easy, and, I'd get caught." He paused, "cant really live in the city when you have a life and a heart like mine."

I didn't say anything, I nodded my head; all though, I wasn't agreeing, I wasn't disagreeing either.

I now kept all my attention on the flicking of the channels, finally; Harry settled on a movie.

I sat back and relaxed watching the movie, focusing on the people on the screen rather than my thoughts of lust, embarrassment, and fluster.

I wanted to talk to Harry and start up some conversation you would have at a calm morning in a coffee shop as you sipped on the caffeinated beverage that had some sort of flavored creamer that makes the coffee taste sweet and sugary. But when you're with Harry, a basic conversation just won't cut it. Simple just won't cut it. Normal just won't cut it. I can't just sit in silence with the television playing as background noise. I'll go crazy, my hands were already starting to get sweaty and a lump formed in my throat.

Why am I getting so nervous?

I took a deep breath, fifteen year old me would have popped open a bottle of vodka and started to chug my worries away, drowning them in the burning clear liquid, straight from the glass bottle. Sometimes I wish I could still be able to do that and not feel guilty, but it was and still is very unhealthy and damaging to my health. I was a certified and diagnosed alcoholic. I wasn't a fan of that label, not one bit.

But for the most part I'm more responsible now. I won't open that burning yet tempting bottle of liquid and drown my worries in it, I'll do something that is less effective, but, is healthier for me, mentally and physically.

Journaling.

"I'll be right back," I muttered to Harry as I stood up from the cushioned couch, I was still looking at him but avoiding the orbs I was so drawn too, for which I had no idea why.

He looked away from the television screen, now having his eyes fixated on me and my standing figure "where are you going?"

"Basement, I'll be right back." I clicked my tongue, excusing myself from the living room and going to the basement, where my beloved journal rested.

I creeped down the creaky stairs, foot stomping each step. I opened the door slowly, and walked through the basement to the dark room.

I toggled the handle and the door opened roughly, I peered around the dimly lit room with a lightbulb that was just about to burst, I saw my journal resting on the shelf that I found it on the first time I've ever seen the leather casing with blank pages that I was destined to fill out. I yanked it off the shelf, the red pen coming off with it and into my clutch. I ran out the dark room and out the basement, returning into the living room as I plopped on the couch next to Harry, a sigh leaving my lips when my bottom hit the soft seating and my back propped against the puffed leather cushions.

I began to scribble down my thoughts instead of drowning myself in vodka with them. Writing was a beautiful way of expressing feelings, and I've never thought about writing as something more than just turning in an important essay or pop quiz. But now, my whole vision on writing things down with a pen has changed; changed for the better.