Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 73

Chapter 73

a/n: AH GRAPHIC VIOLENCE WARNING. If you have a weak stomach... skip to where it says "They both nodded and fled inside." <3 (it's really not that bad but like... could be gross to some!) ily ily ily

HARRY'S P.O.V.:

When I was younger and feeling a lot of things, a lot of emotions that I couldn't name and didn't have the energy to sort through, my body used to react physically. I would develop nervous tics. I would shut down, be unable to speak, and jump at even the smallest of noises.

My first foster home, the one I spent the majority of my childhood in, forced me into therapy for this. The therapist said that my mind and body were trying to process more than they were able and that I shouldn't feel bad or ashamed of them. That they were normal, encouraged even so that I didn't keep everything bottled up. I thought it was bullshit. I just wanted her to tell me how to stop from flinching or twitching enough that the other kids didn't feel the need to make remarks about it. And I wanted her to explain to me why they only went away whenever I became violent.

When I started using, the tics only got worse. Evidently, they worsened whenever I was going through withdrawals or a period where I was particularly high to the point where I could barely function – the latter of which used to be my preference.

A relentless few years into the future, ones that left me sober and numb, I was able to get enough of a handle on them that they were no longer a hindrance in my life, popping up in only moments of extreme stress like the nights before fights or if I was pushing a particularly large shipment of drugs than normal.

This, it seemed, was one of those high-stress moments. Or rather, highly emotional moments – the emotion this time around being anger. Absolute, un-restrained, and unkempt rage, to be exact.

And as I stopped for just a moment on the step in front of the studio door, willing myself to breathe deeply and attempting to ground myself so as to stop the way I was excessively blinking and opening and closing my free hand, the one that wasn't currently armed, my mind wandered to the girl behind me in the car – to a certain moment a few months ago when she'd brought me to a rage room.

"Right," River dragged the bat over the floor, her eyes on the shards of glass collecting beneath her feet. Her hair, squished beneath her goggles, fell over shoulder. "Well, yeah. The one I got arrested with. Her and I were actually recommended to come here alongside our community service." She gave a short laugh. "The counsellors assigned to our case called us 'highly emotional' and figured it could give us an outlet for our 'anger.'" My eyes were still on her, reluctantly refusing to look elsewhere, as she continued, "We went once. Realized it was kinda fucking fun and then just... kept coming back for a bit."

"Don't know why they'd recommend a highly emotional person to come here," I shook my head, lifting the bat in my hand with one arm and bringing it down hard on the shattered remains of the table. But I knew exactly why. "You could do a lot of fucking damage here."

"Okay, first of all," She shot back, slightly defensive. I suppressed a grin, selfishly always liking when I could get a reaction out of her. "I wasn't actually highly emotional. And second of all," her free arm gestured toward the room, "causing damage is kind of the point. Why do you think I brought you here?"

I raised an amused brow. "Because I'm highly emotional?" She wouldn't be wrong.

"Because you're always angry and like to cause damage."

"I'm not always angry," I muttered through my teeth and then, catching the split second her expression fell at my tone, composed myself for a moment before adding, "I just get pissed off easily."