Benevolence [H.S.]

Chapter Five

Harry's POV

No. 

Like a cycle, over and over again, it repeats and echoes. 

No...no..no no no NO-

Tumbling over every fold of my brain, it's the jump in internal volume that finally wakes me. As Frankenstein's monster from the table, I rise, but the only horror here is the strength of this fucking hangover.

I try not to heave as the room spins when I sit up, and grabbing the closest glass on the nightstand, I take a generous gulp to clear my throat. The room temperature, stale taste nearly triggers my gag reflex again. Drunk Harry would do better to leave water beside the bed next time. Bit of a prick, he is. These bourbon-induced comas were supposed to be a balm for whatever bizarre episodes I've been having at night, but so far all they've done is add a headache to the ordeal. 

Three weeks ago I wokeup spluttering and coughing, gasping and grabbing at my throat in a full blown panic. It wasn't until I went to the bathroom that morning and saw myself in the mirror that I noticed the scratches on my neck, just over my necklace. I'd apparently been clawing at my own throat. From then on it just kept going-no better or worse, just consistent. Some might say I'm losing it, or suffering some kind of stress disorder. Or both. 

Idon't even know what that means, really,  all Iknow is that for the last three weeks something has been chasing me. And every night, the landscape of mysubconscious becomes harder and harder to navigate. But whatever's coming for me at night doesn't have a face. Not one I can remember, anyway. The only bits that stick with me after I open my eyes are a few sounds and the feelings of pure dread.

So I've done what any smart man afraid of the dark would--smother it in booze.

Last night's jeans are still half-buttoned and my eyes half closed as the sunlight threatens to shatter through the windows. Who ever thought of a greenhouse-style ceiling in a fucking bedroom? Twats.

It would be easy to just throw the blankets over my head and ride out the misery in peace and comfort of my own bed, but there's just too much to do lately. We can't afford to get behind at the shop with so many things on the horizon. So, as much as I'd love to wallow, the show must go on. Nothing a little (lot) of aspirin and a hot shower won't fix. I give one last longing look to my pillow before heading for the bathroom.

Bare feet and barely-open eyes make for a graceful trip, however, when my big toe catches a splinter on the old plank flooring, sending me sprawling as I reach blindly for the door frame. My forehead finds it first, and just like that, the day has already brought me to my knees. Literally. And that is when I decide today is complete bullshit.

Downstairs, I put the coffee on by the back door, waiting for it to percolate, and stare dazedly at the old Hawthorn out the window. It's lost most of it's blossoms by now, but still smells faintly of death. Apparently, hawthorn flowers produce the same chemical that carcasses do when decomposing. Fun fact my dad told me as a kid after coming back from the war. I never asked how he knew this.

Soon the smell of freshly brewed overtakes the sickly-sweet scent of the tree, and I pour myself a massive mug of. Careful not to scald my tongue off, I blow first and take that perfect first sip. Relishing in the bitter warmth, I let my brain start to piece together last night's events. As if on cue, the bridge of my nose starts to ache.

Ah, yes, throwing punches for Niall yet again. I don't remember exactly what started it, well, other than that kid who'd been sniffing around his little sister awhile back. He must have shown up just moments before Niall did. I was already waiting at the bar when I heard the accented curses explode in the parking lot. That short fuse of his certainly doesn't do us any favors in terms of "lying low".