The Me You Can't See (H.S)

02

Haven's POV:

I'm in the middle of washing my hair, music blasting, with soap seeping into my eyes when I hear the ring of my ancient flip phone go off. Knowing that only one person calls me. . . considering well everyone thinks I'm dead, I shut the water off and all but broke my ass trying to get to my phone.

I know that I'm considered dead and that my father is completely unaware. . . to his dislike might I add, but to this day maybe its just me being paranoid or the fact that he has eyes everywhere that I never stay in one place for too long. Every six months I quit the shitty job I'm working at, leave the dirt cheap apartment I'm renting, toss the burner phone I'd been using and find another city in Australia to move to and start the cycle over again.

Yes, it gets annoying, never being able to settle down, meet someone, put down some roots but I mean, all in all, anyone who would date me let alone procreates with me has to be bat shit crazy, so I'll just leave it at that. At the end of the day, as long as I never have to see my father or that stupid house I used to call home again then my life is going well.

"H-Hello!!!" I say out of breath from running with my eyes closed across my miniature apartment.

"Hey Cherry!!! What you doing, sounded like you were getting some good -"

"Don't finish that sentence Zayn or I'll come to find you and skin your balls, you know I don't have sex or really interact with anyone. . .so that would be kinda hard?" I cut him off quickly while trying to preserve my eyes from the soap that is currently burning holes in my eyeballs.

"Oh come on you know what they say, the only way to get over old dick is to get under a new one. . .or something like that." He says questioningly at the end.

"Yeah I don't really think we should count him as being the last, you know," I say laughing.

"Damn. . .yeah, I don't really know how to respond to that." He jokes back.

See I understand how this may come off as offensive, but the best thing about my friendship with Zayn is that everything is usually offensive. We both have a morbid sense of humour and well we've been making jokes about our trauma for as long as we've known each other.

"Anyways, when are you getting here I can't wait to finally get shit-faced with someone else," I asked Zayn.

"Well I've got a couple of things to do for who shall not be named but I'll be there at the end of this week and I feel the same way, all of the guys I work with are like 50-year-old men with beer bellies and cigarette breath. You would think that working for a cartel would mean you drink less and run more but I don't think they got the memo." He fills me in.

I start laughing, God I miss him, "I know I remember, they were the ones that used to perv on me the most, like no sorry I do not find your rotting teeth and stale breath attractive." I respond back chuckling.

After a few moments of us laughing I simmer down and add solemnly, "And you know you can say his name right he's not Voldemort plus it won't make a difference."

Even though we joke around about our trauma, he's never actually said his name and I'm thankful for that. It's stupid, I've said it in my head to myself but I don't know why hearing it come out of some else mouth just sends shivers up my spine and I can physically feel my scars start to burn. Even when he's not here he's still here and I hate how much control he still has over me.

"Cherry, I know we joke around a lot and that's just because collectively we're missing way too many brain cells, but you know I would never say his name, at least not to you, just like you wouldn't say you know whose name to me. That's why we work, we understand each other." Zayn replies, the mood of our conversation taking a sudden turn.