May [H.S]

11

Harry

•••

Au petit jour.

Embers circulate the dreary airs, emerging from the roaring destruction materializing before my paralyzed self. The waves ricochet, consuming everything in sight. Even the darkness submitted to its fury, succumbing all at once. Swept up in a crackling being of destruction, the light grows brighter with each passing second.

Snap out of it.

The notion of my actions doesn't overrule the cementing glue of hysteria that tangles me, holding my inactive limbs hostage.

Staring ahead at the crumbling setting, the entirety of me reeling in dizziness. Sweat drips down my face onto the veils building around my neck, the heat arising from the charr opposing me reaches out its hands, I swore if I took a step I'd melt into the concrete under my boots. Perhaps that's where I belong, six feet under the gritty soil. Sooner or later, I'd end up there, it's only a matter of time, Harry.

After this, I'm asking for it.

The distant grumble of screams for help vacates what's left of my consciousness. Stuck ahead with the plunging sea of flames, tearing down thousand-year-old rooted trees in the blink of an eye, compellingly ruinous.

Darting up out of a place of discomfort, I blink my eyes at the setting, loosely remembering the calm area around me. Bright, baby yellow sunbeams christen the mess of tied-away curls on the top of my head. I let out a low, exhausted groan, settling up from the creaky surface of the chaise lounge that stood in front of the all-seeing view.

The chary panic injected into my bloodstream dissipates in the early morning breeze tickling my forehead, the effect of one slightly ajar window. My hand rushes to rub my eyes lucid, finding how tepid the top of my skin is, swarming in cold chills.

You're awake, you're safe.

Slowly falling out of the memorized terror, my chest lowers erratically, softening its thumping pace. I can't believe I fell asleep in my ex's living room. Especially after the night that took place, it's a shock she didn't throw me out on my ass.

Abrasively sober, the imaginary drummer in my head plays out their piece. The surrounding, as easy on the nerves as it is, burns my eyes, disrupting the already immense migraine I have.

Such an influx of natural light forces a hand to my eyes, guarding against the fury of the risen sun. Glancing down at the soft shirt over my torso, the light throbbing pain in my upper thigh and arm becomes apparent as I come more and more to.

Failing to completely understand what happened last night, my temper exceeding myself was the least shocking event that took place. Meg and I almost fucked, after almost three years in counting. The fucked thing is I don't remember half of it, and now I'm kicking myself for how much I drank last night.

The silky, godsend compression of her lips against mine, so desperately gentle. Packed with innocence, she herself doesn't know is there. My hands all over her body, craving the touch of that fallen angel. Unable to contain ourselves in each other's presence, all that mattered was the union of our lips, the looming sticky lust, and our synced beating hearts.

It's pathetic admitting to what I'm thinking.

Stumbling up from the achy comfort of the cushions, I glance over at the large feet hanging off the side of the sofa. Internally rolling my eyes with the surge of thoughts that come along, murderous agendas that burn fresh in my mind as a consistently obnoxious snore sounds from the lanky individual.