Sinnerman //H.S

4- "Honey, honey; The tortured artist"

Harry has a really good memory.

He remembers the name of every single one of his teachers, his favorite one remains Miss Pebbles in year 4. She always used to ruffle his hair and pinch his cheek, she used to let him stay with her during recess when he didn't feel like playing with the other kids and give him a slice of whichever fruit she was eating.

He remembers Jack, his only childhood friend, the bike rides in primary school and the nights out in high school. Being made fun of for only having one friend, the insults and slurs they both received because they were both men, so naturally everyone assumed they loved each other.

He remembers the day he fell in love for the first time. Her name was Victoria and she was his sister's friend, therefore older than him. She had dark brown eyes, and long black hair that she always wore in a high ponytail, he remembers always comparing its smoothness to silk. She was so fucking beautiful and god did he really love her. He remembers their first kiss, how soft her skin was. She tasted like bubblegum.

He remembers the first painting he ever completed, and how much it sold for. He remembers his first time having sex with Vic, his first cigarette right after, and doing it again, and again. His first beer at the pub with Jack, and getting black out drunk.

The first fight with his mum and the way she cried because of him, the last fight with his sister that ended their relationship and the way she slapped his face before leaving, and that was the last time he ever saw her.

He remembers the music playing at Jack's funeral, the clothes he was wearing while laying still in his casket, the way his classmates were crying like fucking phonies, the way Victoria denied him that night, throwing his clothes in his face and yelling at him, claiming he was too drunk and too angry. It all made him so fucking mad he just had to leave, he just wanted to break something, and that was the first time he felt the urge.

He remembers his first fist fight, he remembers each model to his paintings, their skin color as they laid bare in front of him. He remembers his first attempt and his first fail, his first episode and his first blackout.

Harry remembers everything. So why is it so difficult for him to get your features just right?

He knows what you look like, he's been staring at you for a while and you know that, but for some reason your eyes don't look quite right on his sketchbook, and he doesn't know what your hair looks like in a ponytail and if your neck is as pretty as Vic's, so for now it's just falling down behind your shoulders and grazing your collarbones. But it's still not right, and it's frustrating him.

And now the music is not loud enough, or maybe it's too loud? His head feels heavy, and his pencil is not sharp enough and it's so fucking impossible for him to focus.

Throwing the worn out sketchbook to the ground with a frustrated groan he runs his hands through his hair, hoping that it'll make it feel lighter on his head. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands until he sees psychedelic patterns behind his eyelids, and then he sees flashes of your face, and he tries to remember how soft your skin felt against his fingertips, skin on skin, your sweet perfume and your glorious tits right under his nose as he carried you across the beach.

And then he sees the sad blonde and he remembers her moans resonating through his car. She wasn't hot enough, and her skin was too cold.

"Fucking bitch!" His shout resonates through his art studio, and suddenly he is sweeping everything off the tables, open cans of new paint he just bought today, brushes, piles and piles of canvas paper with so much rage that it almost bounces off the floor, staining the hardwood floor and the white walls. His chest is slightly heaving as he storms towards the record player playing your favorite album through the studio. All he sees is red for a moment and he has every intention of snapping the vinyl in half and throwing the record player over his head just to hear it crash to the floor.