Legendary // H.S

48.

T/W: Vivid descriptions of domestic abuse and sexual assault

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'Don't you know I'm no good for you?'

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Waiting is not a waste of time. Sometimes it provides you with the clarity required to face the most difficult of situations. It gives you a space to truly contemplate your goals, your purpose, your intentions. In no other time span will us humans be rewarded with such a luxury. Away from the outside forces and protected by the bubble of patience.

Our willingness to wait also reveals our commitment to people and places. Choosing to wait for another, to go through the sequence on uncertainty and curiosity, it only makes the spark burn brighter as the candle is finally lit and light pours in. There are things in this world worth waiting for, despite how catastrophic the journey to get there has been.

Waiting is a blessing.

It's been a few hours since Harry was seen to by Graham, and he's since woken from his slumber. The boys have spent time with him, even Babz showing up shortly after the doctor left and making sure everything was alright. I, however, have remained seated at a stool in the kitchen, simply staring out the window as my mind tries to articulate what it is I'm feeling.

In truth, I've been too frightened to face Harry. Too scared to see his wounded figure and weary eyes as they bring constant reminders to the terror I felt and what it caused me to realise about myself. It's not his fault, he has no control over it, and I know it's selfish to put my own needs before his. I wanted to see him the moment the door to the living room opened, but my body refused it. So, I've been sat in this same position for the past four hours, and now it is just Harry and I inside the house.

It's been good having some time to reflect, but in the silence and setting sun, I became aware that it must come to an end and I must face what I've been avoiding. There are no sounds in the house, only the pipes creaking as the temperatures change. Harry was moved to the sofa earlier, of which the others were met with groans of pain, but since then he's remained quiet. He hasn't even shifted on the seat. Part of me worried he had stopped breathing at one point, the only time a ventured down the hall, but as I poked my head in I realised he was sleeping. Resting just like he was ordered to.

I wondered what he dreamed of when he slept, or if he had any nightmares like me. I'm aware he has his own trauma, but it's never been discussed. He's never had a night terror like me, but these things manifest in different ways. When I saw him in his slumber, he looked so unbelievably peaceful. There were light snores escaping his lips as his breathing became heavy, his eyebrows scrunched together as if in thought. His arms were hugging around a pillow, grip getting tighter the deeper he fell, but it didn't alarm me. He was just trying to get comfortable.

I left the room after just watching him for a few minutes, content with the knowledge that he'd be alright. It still doesn't feel like it, though. Rain clouds hang low over us, the threat of torrential downpour is imminent. This is a storm that we cannot outrun, we must persevere.

After some time, I finally pluck up the courage to see him. I bring the bottle of whiskey that had been sat on the side taunting me the whole time, taking a large swig of it as my feet travelled down the hall. I wait outside for a bit, still unsure of myself, but his voice carries me towards him.

'Atlas, is that you?' he calls out. The sofa is right by the door, so I can hear him loud and clear. Being so near to him already feels better, but I know when I take one look at his body the anxiety will flood back in.