Colorblind [h.s]

19

Harry's POV

I stand under the scorching stream of water, letting the heat release the tension in my muscles. When the water runs clear, I turn the knob and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist. Every part of my body aches, and the fresh cut on my head probably needs stitches.

Fucking hell. I shoulda shot that fucker when I had the chance.

I should probably wrap my hands or at least disinfect my wounds, but that's the last thing on my mind right now. I've only had one thing on my mind for the past two weeks, and so much that I can't ever seem to focus on anything else. So much that I've been more irritable than usual lately. So much that I can't even escape it when I'm asleep.

I'll deal with that shit tomorrow.

I turn the light off in my bathroom and walk to my dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers and grey sweats. Before I get a chance to put them on, a voice sounds from behind me and nearly scares the shit out of me.

"Long shower, mate," Niall says. "I've been sittin' here for like 20 minutes."

"Bloody hell, Niall!" I yell, whipping around to face him. "The fuck are you doing sittin' here in the dark?"

I walk over to my nightstand and turn on the lamp.

"Waitin' for you," he shrugs.

"Okay," I pause, furrowing my brows. "Why?"

"I gotta tell you somethin'. You should probably sit down."

"Christ, now? It's five in the fuckin' morning."

"Yeah, Harry," he nods. "Now."

"Why should I listen to your drunk ass?" I ask, pulling my boxers and sweats on and hanging my towel up in my bathroom.

"Because my 'drunk ass' heard shit that sobered me up real fast."

"Well spit it out," I snap, sitting down at my window seat to face him.

"Right, well I just spent the past couple hours talkin' with Violet, and uh," he hesitates.

"And what?"

"I think everything's a lot more complicated than you realize."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not doing this with you right now, mate. She forgot me- or she's pretending not to know me and I- yeah and that's that. Now get out and let me sleep," I say, standing up and pointing to the door.

"But she didn't forget you, she just doesn't remember you," he responds, staying seated at the edge of my bed.

"Same difference," I scoff.

"Listen lad, we were talkin' about England, yeah? And I asked her if she'd ever visited Ireland and she told me she wasn't sure and-"

"She has," I laugh, emotionless. "With me."

This whole situation is comical and annoying to me at the same time.

I don't think I could ever forget that trip with her, but she's gone and suppressed it from her memory entirely – or just lies to everyone now. Lying used to be so hard for her; she could never keep up the act and would always end up telling the truth. She said that people always deserved honesty, which now is really fucking ironic.