Honey Rain

Chapter Twenty-Two

I don't have a reason to fear going to Hell anymore. The next twelve days were worse than anything Satan could ever conjure up.

I saw Harry nearly twice a day every day in those twelve days, each time with some slutty girl on his arm or putting his tongue down their throat. I didn't see him alone once. He knew it. He knew that I watched him snog the faces off all those girls he was with. He loves it, anyways. He ought to. He chose them. He chose them over me. He was obsessed with his life of being the center of the universe and having pointless sex.

He's no better than those girls, is he? Slut. That should be me kissing him.

I forced myself back into the Empty Space every time, squeezing my eyes shut and praying to nothing and no one that when I opened them, Harry would be next to me begging me to come back. The worst part of it all is that I would take him back, without a doubt, I would.

My left arm was aching underneath the multiple layers of clothing that I was using to hide my pathetic excuse for a body. I hadn't gone twelve hours yet without adding a new piece of bloody art to the gallery that was my scarred arms.

Harry had turned into his old self again. He was an absolute nightmare, worse than he was even before he had "loved" me. He was wearing that mask that he loved to wear, that cocky and arrogant son-of-a-bitch veil that he wore to cover his real face. All of his smiles were fake, showing too much teeth and too much confidence.

And he couldn't even bring himself to look at me.

I did nothing but stare at him, wanting, begging, needing him to look back.

I could just reveal everything. I could share all the stories and pictures of us, show everyone the receipts of our time together and then everything would be out in the open. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I would never put Harry through the same ordeal that I was forced to go through.

I finally got him to look at me on the fifth day of Hell. He was alone by his locker, for the first time in a long while. I almost fell over in shock when his beautiful eyes finally met mine.

His face visibly dropped, the mask sliding off of his face and revealing the innocence of the love of my life beneath it. Yeah. He's the love of my life. Too bad I wasn't his.

Sadness or longing, maybe both, was plastered across his sullen face, his lips parted slightly. I couldn't do anything but stare at his pathetic appearance, my eyes locked on his like I wouldn't be able to look away if I wanted to.

He shifted on his heels, almost unnoticeably, moving a fraction of an inch closer to me as if on instinct. His eyebrows were turned down with the saddest facade I'd ever seen. He looked like he was in pain, real pain. I just wanted him to run over to me and let me take his sadness away, but no.

He turned around at the feeling of someone's hand on his shoulder and the mask was back on. He didn't even look back at me as he walked away, leaving me shattered and on the verge of tears for the hundredth time.

Fuck this. And fuck him too.

I left school right after that, skipping my last three classes.

I had never been a smoker. I thought cigarettes tasted even worse than they smelled and were surely bound to kill you, but I didn't care today. I still had a pack in my dresser from the only time I ever tried. I flopped down on my bed and stuck a cigarette in my mouth, breathing in, out, in, out, in, feeling pressure as I pushed the smoke through my lungs. The scrape of nicotine against the back of my throat was deliciously painful and calming, leaving me feeling a bit more level-headed than I was earlier. The soft buzz of the drug was keeping me content for the time, a lovely break from the torture of being in my own mind. As soon as I finished my first one, I moved onto a second.