Wonderland | H.S.

Chapter Nine, Part One

Have fun.

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Presley's POV | Violet Delight's Motel

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I've never been able to enjoy the present.

My mind wonders about the future; my mind stays trapped in the past. Either I'm worried about what may happen, the aspects of life that I can't control, or I think about the cruelties of the past I can never undo.

It's haunting, but most cages are.

Sometimes I ignore it—the hell I've seen, the tide-pools I've drowned in—because I'm still waiting for the day it all gets better. Getting excited over things isn't easy. I'm always worried about the bad. Warm water on Sundays? Oh, what a joy. But now, I'm thinking about the inevitable cold water on Mondays.

Happiness is a momentary fix. Good things, positive things, are temporary.

Even this bed is temporary. But right now, it's the only thing I know, and damn is it not a step up from the springless couch.

"I'm not sleeping on that."

Maybe I should be thankful for the temporary love I had with Harry because the more I think about it, the more I can't—for the doomed life of me—understand why I dropped to my knees for the dramatic child with complaints pouring out of his ass.

My eyes peel from the below-average bed, which to me looks like a five-star hotel, and settle on the frog of the pond's nightmares. Harry keeps his arms crossed against his chest, tapping his foot while glaring at the bed. Or heaven.

Dragging my tongue against my cheek, I fight against strangling him and ask, "You are genuinely the most negative person I've ever met," I say, crossing my arms. "Tell me, are you ever happy?"

"Actually, yes." He looks at me, dropping his arms. "This morning, I was rather content."

Because this morning, he didn't know who Presley Symmes was. Because this morning, he wasn't forced to stay in a secluded place with Presley Symmes. Because this morning...he was living with a full-blown redhead killer and was oblivious to the trials of normal people.

I scoff. "I was happier this morning, too. Loads happier, if we're being honest."

"And the lying continues. How pitiful," Harry drawls, cocking a brow. "Weren't you grieving my death this morning?"

"Affirmative," I nod. "And even though you were dead as a doornail—which made me sadder than usual, but not too sad, you know?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Careful with the lies, Pinocchio. Your nose is going to grow here in a second if you keep this up."

"Yeah, and when's your penis gonna grow?" I blurt out as Harry's face drops, his jaw ticking. I'm not quite sure what game we're playing, but I'm certain I'm winning. I take a deep breath, gathering my empty thoughts. "This morning," I continue, "I was at peace. Very, very peaceful. I was experiencing utter bliss. Know why?"

Harry sighs as he turns around. Finally, he's letting me speak—for once, he's not interrupting—and I hate that more. "No, Pres, I don't know why," he says, picking up his bag. Oh, look at him and his newfound manners. They're disgusting; I hope he cries blood. "But I have a feeling you'll tell me all about your peace here in a second, so please, by all means, continue to bore me by informing me of your said bliss."

He said the word bliss like he was calling me out for a bluff. Like I was lying, which I fucking am, but that's not the damn point. Following suit in being a good, kind houseguest, I move to put away my clothes. Reaching down, I grab my embarrassing bag and toss it on the bed like a rotting baseball. I was never good at sports. I always cried—not because we lost, but because I was there. I hated being anywhere but my room. Times were once peaceful, you know.