Ablaze

08

I had been back in my room for about an hour, most of that spent in the shower. A week and a half in a hospital had left me feeling revolting. Washing my hair multiple times rejuvenated me, and I scrubbed my body until my skin was raw and sensitive to touch.

I was sitting at the vanity on my desk, brushing through my hair, trying my best to detangle the untamed waves.

After eating with Niall and Louis, I became more cognizant of myself and my surroundings. It was the first time I had been in a social situation like that unmedicated for presumably a long time.

My brain was still hazy when I attempted to think of anything complex or recall past events, but everyday actions felt more controllable. Even simple activities were always completed in a daze, my perception constantly murky.

Even the night when I was first here was clouded as if I had experienced it out of my own body, watching it evolve in the third person.

Unfortunately, it was still almost impossible to recall anything before the banquet. All I could count on was that my memories would slowly form. My heart clenched, knowing I had experienced them detached. I didn't know when the drugging began and how far back my memories were tarnished. I didn't have much hope of forming a whole person with unique patterns of thinking.

The sound of my door being opened captured my attention, dragging me out of the mindless motions of brushing my hair.

I knew who it was immediately and returned my dull gaze to the mirror, trying to get the final knot out.

As soon as his intimidating frame entered my room, I spoke, "Can't you knock?"

"No." Harry monotonously retorted.

He trudged through my room, choosing to lean against my dresser. Because of his height, it only came up to his hips, allowing him to comfortably rest on it.

I shot him a disapproving glare through my mirror, eyeing the lit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes met my reflection challengingly. His response to my disapproving scowl was to hold up the ashtray he bought with him as if that made up for his actions.

I was pleased to see he had taken the time to shower and catch up on some much-needed rest. The dark circles under his eyes weren't as harsh, and his skin wasn't as pale. His curls were free, the ends still damp as they curled around the nape of his neck, framing his face softly. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans with black Converses on his feet instead of his boots.

Studying the tattoos along his arms, now visible outside the sweaters he had been wearing, I discreetly admired them. His tattoos held no color like the other boys, completely done in black ink.

They were a blur of figures at the distance I sat, but the raven tattooed on his neck was clear as ever.

After getting to know Harry a little more, I learned his tattoos had obvious solemn meanings. He wasn't a person who appreciated spontaneity. Everything he did was meticulous, so his tattoos screamed symbolism. They told a story that he couldn't verbalize, instead choosing to wear them openly, telling the story for him. Although I knew his history was shrouded in mystery, at this point, the story was only discernible by him.

His other tattoos were easily concealable if he chose to. Based on his mannerisms, I assumed it was when he felt vulnerable.

But the raven on his neck, the guilty above his brow, and the inverted cross under his eye were permanently visible.

No matter what Harry wore, they were a constant reminder to himself and everyone else.

Throughout my time in the hospital, although he usually opted for silence, there would be small moments that we shared that sparked the growing sense of Deja Vu.