Benevolence [H.S.]

Chapter Seven

*Trigger Warning: Mentions of sexual abuse, violence and death & dying.

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Tick tick tickticktick tick tick tick schhhhhhting!
Ticktick tick

This week has been an absolute blur.

After my little stunt in the bike shop Monday morning, I spent the entire walk home decidedly not processing what had possessed me to light my cigarette on a total stranger's mouth.

Instead, I shoved that little moment into one of many boxes in the back of my mind to deal with later. I believe psychologists call this "compartmentalizing." I call it efficiency.

Things like, you know, the way his cheekbones seemed to glow as my cigarette sparked to life between us...or the shadow of his bruised nose and how deeply it contrasted against his ridiculously unmarred complexion.

Or the way he smelled, good god the way he smelled...like vanilla-washed leather and sunshine. A weaker woman might have feigned a trip just to "stumble" into his chest all dime-store-novel style. Or how much longer his eyelashes had looked up close...

How his eyes were somehow bright even under those hideous fluorescent lights.

One thing I know for sure is that all bullies have one thing in common. Doesn't matter what shape they take: animal killers, rapists, abusers, even just your run of the mill playground menace— it always comes down to the eyes.

They're always empty.

Some might even say their eyes are dead, but honestly that's just an insult to the eternally rested.

Whether it's that dark, vacuous sort of gaze plastered in their pupils every day, or just the moment before they strike that the humanity disappears, but those eyes are always the same, always missing a light. Like peering into eaves of a windowless attic.

Not Harry, though.

I was afraid when I saw him sitting there all purple-faced, towering a full head and shoulders above me when he stood. That cigarette between his teeth, those slightly inverted brows.

Even when he made a joke, which he somehow managed to make endearing despite the cocky attitude, I was still on edge.

That intimidating mask faltered though when he backed me up against the counter. I'll admit I was getting ready to scream when he closed that gap and cornered me, but it died on my tongue when I looked up and saw those eyes.

Now, let me just say, even a murderer can have beautifully crafted eyes—but his were full of something...full of shit most definitely, but aside from that there was just something so familiar about them and I just could not put my finger on it.

That's when he shifted juuust slightly, angling his body just the smallest hitch away. I knew that he could see I was afraid, and rather than take advantage of that, he (though very discreetly) tried to even the playing field.

It was in that moment the tough guy facade cracked just enough for me to understand he'd not actually hurt me.

Maybe that's what did it. Maybe that foreign, bare minimum of respect is what gave me the cojones to let my guard down and summon that daring piece of me that still lived somewhere inside.