May [H.S]

13

Harry
•••

Je te connais par cœur.

The destruction in my gut screams for me as the brightness of a certain glowing pink flamingo flashes, persistent, and anything but easy on the eyes. Through the raucous downpour of the rain, its rough illumination is intensified. Hard to miss and impossible to ignore.

Neon pink and lime green, over and over into eternity. I thought about them a lot, a dangerous amount, and what memories came along with stumbling upon Rubies at an obscene time of night.

An ever-consistent pitter thunders on the top of the car, sounding the metal exterior, I pull into the lot. Lowering the soft beat of the music that plays eerily under Mother nature's tears. Narrowing my tired, barren eyes at the drops falling in front of the harsh light my bright's cast, I sigh deeply. Hoping that under the influence I'll be able to forget what I've done tonight, forget faces, my temper setting off while trying to understand what happened at that rally, hell, forget my fucking name if that helps.

It's not like being drunk off my ass is what got me into this mess in the first place, is it, Harry?

Wake up tomorrow with a wicked headache and repeat the cycle, coming full circle. Just this time I have to ensure I don't commit a felony. Shouldn't be too hard. It could be that easy, or knowing me I'll kick a certain blonde curly-haired bartender's face in. Start some fight, and God forbid set off a chain reaction of bad deeds.

Swallowing my rationale, I gear up for the wrath of the rainstorm, rushing out as soon as my boots hit the concrete, sounding the accumulated puddles. I shield my face, finding my place of safety near the covered entrance to the bar. The surprising amount of droppage on my hair is enough to annoy me into fisting it up in a bun before I invite myself into the area of the bar. Slicking back the curls, a rush of misunderstanding consumes me at the desolate, strangely creepy feeling that looms in the air.

It's rare that it's this bare, no matter what day of the week it was. Drunks managed to stumble in to nurse a drink, I suppose right now they were all home. I swore I'd walk in and the place would be lively, maybe I'd even run into Finch, running up a tab. Yet, the sore strangler scattered the open space. Every single pool table went unused, perfectly kept pool balls laid in their swayed, green centers.

Walking down the steps to the set of stools occupying the bar, I squint my eyes at the slumped figure on the far side. Ignoring the bubbling pit in my stomach as I wonder why the hell there was no tender behind the bar. Irritated, my eyes stick to the only pair of dangling feet, just off the side of one of the stoles. Red trashed Converse.

"Fuck me." I curse with realization– my night crumbles before my very eyes. Can have a fucking break? Once the hiccupping concern consumes the irritability igniting in my chest, my feet move on their own, thundering over to the induced angel situated on the bar. With rushed further inspection, I know it's her there and not some random with the same fucked over taste in footwear.

"Magnolia–" I say cautiously, forcing out the grim what ifs' that come crashing into me as I stare at her lifeless, dazed features. Roped into admiring the haunting beauty that emerges; transpiring from her full tranquil lashes, plump glazed lips, and an array of dusted freckles. Shaking her gently instantly brings relief as I hear her groan softly under her breath, pressing her scarlet-flushed cheek deeper into what looks like a makeshift pillow out of a zip-up sweater.

"Come on, Meg. Wake up." As before she only responds in an annoyed grumble, a large drunk toddler.

Clearing the drinks blocking my way, I dart my eyes around only to come to the conclusion that I'm even more confused than before. All these half-drunk glasses, a trashed bar, and no tender insight. I suppose now the lack of smokers outside was also strange, putting aside the inclusion of the downpour. "What the hell are you doing here? Meg, hello, am I on mute?"