Wonderland | H.S.

Chapter Nine, Part Two

Part One wasn't sad, for fuck's sake.

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Harry's POV | Violet Delight's Motel

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Three hours.

She went to bed three hours ago, and all I've done is stare at this fucked ceiling.

It's going to cave in on my head. I've already got a lawyer on a speed-dial; down with this motel run by a tyrant. Who doesn't have more than one room available in a place that hasn't gotten business in years? You think they'd be crawling on their knees for a droplet of business, but they're stubborn and worthless.

Not as stubborn as Crimson over here.

I suppose I'm not any different. One time, I ignored Cade for an entire month because he refused to listen to the "Thor" playlist I made him. But that's rude—what he did—to begin with. I reacted how any normal human being would.

Stop lying, Pretty Boy.

First off, who the fuck's in my head? Since my near-perfect life went downhill a few fuck-knows-when hours ago, I've had this annoying second conscience. I want to kill it. Brutally. I want to murder the voice brutally, but that means brutally murdering myself in the process.

I wouldn't be able to sue this motel if I did that.

And second off, Blonde Fuck did listen to the playlist ...three fucking hours after I gave it to him. That douche doesn't know manners, doesn't have manners at all. And according to Presley, neither do I.

What do I have? That's the real question I should be asking, not questions like whether or not she's okay. To be fair, I didn't ask her if she was okay; I assumed she wasn't based on the damn Cozen Lake leaking out of her eyes.

I blow out a breath at the tragic thought—at the sight of her crying. The second she noticed her raindrop tears, she wiped them away like windshield wipers do a cloud's breakdown. She wiped them away like she didn't have a viable reason to be crying.

Did she? I don't know. Her friend seemed to know my name, and Caden was so far up her ass that he agreed. Unless he agreed from inner conviction, which is worse. He's such a fucking loser.

But if that goddamn blonde was backing the Maddie girl up, he's on Presley's side—

There I go with the fucking sides again, as if that worthless concept exists. Why'd she put that thought into my head, huh? I'm not on any side. That I know of, that is. Am I? Why am I asking myself so many pointless questions—

I questioned my excessive use of questions. I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown. No, I'm not. Now I'm indecisive. I've always been indecisive, but not like this. I'm even being indecisive about being indecisive.

And she's not making it any better.

Not with her funny comments that make me want to zip that mouth shut and throw away the key. Not with the ruby of her crimson hair or the blue of her teary eyes. The blue and red contrast in the worst way possible; it's a chore to look away.

Feeling like I'm going to vomit, I turn on my side, ripping the too-small blanket to at least cover my shoulders. For fuck-knows-why, given my shoulders are covered by a sweatshirt. Either way, I'll be cold. This room is colder than Levi's room, and that idiot keeps the apartment frozen.

I think.

Well, he used to at University.

Whatever. Moral, I'm fucking frigid. And the goddamn moon blinding my poor eyes prevents even the possibility of sleep. Such a selfish circle, keeping me from a special dream-state. That's the reason you're not getting sleep? The moon? My newfound conscience that only works when I'm on the verge of murdering Cade is making me feral. But fuck, so is she.