Dear Iris [h.s]

chapter twenty.

Iris Grace

Last night was eventful to say the very least.

It was good, I like talking to Harry. He's so intelligent and well spoken that it's such a breath of fresh air. Last night I went for a walk in the hopes I might see him, and I did. I really enjoyed being in his presence and having something in common for a change. Feeling equal to somebody is something I wish I could have felt a long time ago.

Then he kissed me. Sparks flew and electricity shot down my spine. Not one ounce of regret was present in my mind as we kissed or wet further on my couch. It was different, I felt like somebody cared about me for the first time in a while. The way he'd kiss me and call me beautiful instead of just going at it like I was nothing but another girl he's able to fuck. It was nice to feel cared for.

It was after that worried me. He looked so regretful and left as quickly as he could. I'd have been lying to myself if I said it didn't hurt. It was just the drastic change in being so full of emotions and care, to emotionless and walking right out the second it was over.

I ended up sitting on the couch for hours, hating myself for letting things go too far, wondering whether I did anything wrong to send him running out the door the second we were finished. I made several cups of tea and sketched drawing into my sketchbook which I tore out and tossed into the bin in utter frustration.

When I woke up this morning, I still felt shit. It was like last night was just me being stupid, fooled by a pretty face, trying to convince myself that because he doesn't do sketchy business and reads romance novels that his intentions to any other ma might be different. Until I realised I was perhaps being a little harsh.

Maybe he panicked, I don't blame him. In the back of my mind I could hear a voice telling me this was wrong, because it is. If Thomas or my dad found out, I dread to imagine the argument that would break out, and I further dread to imagine what they'd say about Harry.

I don't want to think about it too much, I don't like thinking about stuff for too long, it reminds me of things I don't want to remember. I don't like being negative, not when the world around me is. I forced a smile onto my face, picked up my paintbrush and carried on with the small family portrait I'm doing for an old lady's birthday, a gift from her son.

I read books where the artist is so neat and she's got her life together and she's in Rome or Milan making fortunes. I didn't realise how long it would take to become that woman. I can't even paint a picture without having paint absolutely all over me.

One day I'll make Milan. I promised my teenage self I'd get out of here, I refuse to break the promise to her.

I broke every other one I made.

I wandered down to the stalls later, picked up a new pack of cigarettes, not Styles and Grace ones, decided to try something different for a change. I didn't even like them, it was a waste of £8. Even the man who sold me the cigarettes looked at me like I was stupid.

In a few days there's that art exhibition, I need to make amends with my family before that or things will be dreadful, more than usual. For some reason, I decided I'd go home, to the place where I actually live. The home I was raised in.

Nerves were eating me alive and the urge to spew going up the drive was also increasing with each step. I would probably not feel like this approaching the very house I'm supposed to be living in. I suppose there's not much I can really do to combat that issue though.

I walked in, it sounded empty. Then I heard laughter in the kitchen and shamefully wandered through to say hello. My mum was at the table with Thomas, both of them mid conversation when I walked in, however the conversation ended as soon as I stepped into the room.