Legacy // H.S

15.

'Pull me out from inside

I am folded and unfolded and unfolding'

*

Harry

Anger is hot and uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels like I'm in the centre of a volcano, and I can see the lava rising, I can hear the way it burns my skin, I can feel the sheer fire of it. But I can't move away from it. Instead, I'm trapped, caged in by the magma, but I don't really want to be freed.

When anger turns into rage, you become a part of the embers. You are the fire. You try to control it like a master of the elements, and you burn everyone in your path. Sometimes the fire burns you too, but the route you take to get there, letting the flames follow wherever you travel; it's addicting. Like a drug of the highest potency, something you shouldn't want but still somehow crave. I want that power. I want that danger.

Should I be scared of such a feeling? Perhaps. In any other scenario I'd worry for the person it makes me, how similar I am to those I try to run from. I should be doing everything in my power to not let it consume me. To fight against it, perhaps even with it.

Right now, I'm letting it control me. I'm letting it move my limbs and take over my brain. I'm letting it block out the sounds of Atlas next to me as she pleads for the car to slow. She begs for me to calm down, to tell her where we're going, to at least say something. I don't know how to express what it is that is bubbling inside of me, though. It seems unlike the frustration I've felt before.

My heart is racing faster than the speed at which I drive, my head aches with a growing pain, my hands grip the steering wheel so tight they've become numb. Every part of my body seems to be feeling it. My limbs are unsteady and craving some movement, and I can feel the flare of my nostrils every time I try to take a deep breath.

And in this car, the walls seem to be moving closer to me. So much so that I'm panicking about becoming trapped. But as they near my body, I appear to grow as the anger swells inside of me, begging to be freed. It vibrates through me, the subtle aftershocks of the earthquake shaking me once more when I think it's calmed for a moment.

Alongside this, is an inner turmoil about my role in it all. Hugo's reasons for killing Graham, the next person he'll attack, and when he'll finally turn the gun towards me. Sometimes I even find myself hoping for the bullet to puncture my heart and end everyone's suffering. I sit and imagine a timeline where I did not exist, and their lives were easier. Graham, George, Louis, Atlas. Everyone that's suffered. Maybe if I never infiltrated their lives, none of this would have happened. Maybe if I were never born into this cruel world, their lives would be kinder.

What can I ever really do to stop this mess? Will I always be the harbinger of their suffering? Will it be an endless cycle of violence and pain and death?

Atlas is trying to tell me otherwise. She wants to talk about what we've just witnessed, but his blood is still on me. I can feel it drying against my skin like hot tar. I should have cleaned myself off before we got in the car. Should have maybe waited with the emergency services as they took his body away. But I ran. I left the room as soon as I could, giving my friend one final look before drowning everything else out.

If I close my eyes, I can still see his face as he took his final breaths. Tired but calm. Like death provided sanctuary for him. That should never be the case. Life should be safe enough for him to live without fear. But he's gone now. Graham is dead.

But maybe this is all a nightmare. Another of those grizzly tales I seem to live through each night. Maybe this isn't real, and I'll wake shortly, no blood on my skin and Graham still walking the streets of London with a smile on his face. Maybe if I pinch myself, I won't feel it, because it's not really happening. It's all in my head.