They say when the sun sets, sunflowers face each other. But what if there was no other sunflower to turn to? What if each sunflower had been plucked out, leaving one to its misery, lone and terrified, with no kind of its own, a cruel world in its wa...
They say when the sun sets, sunflowers face each other. But what if there was no other sunflower to turn to? What if each sunflower had been plucked out, leaving one to its misery, lone and terrified, with no kind of its own, a cruel world in its waiting, the sun never shining again?
It dies.
A part of Harry died the day his father first raised a fist on him, then another part when his mum passed. A part went along when he slept with his boyfriend for the very first time. He did not say no, he did not say yes either. Then went a part when the fickle thing that hope is crept into him the first day he moved in with his boyfriend Carl, away from his father and the town he despised truly, wishing for a better tomorrow, only to have it torn away from him with broken glasses of a beer bottle piercing his skin the very night because he didn't serve Carl his beer chilled. He died completely when Carl collapsed in front of him, face twisted inhumanely, mouth dripping foam.
Harry did not move, nor did he help the man who had become a ghoul for him for the past five years. He stood stoic, watching Carl die, unable to look away. That day, Harry learnt that there was evil in him, a venom of some sort, that took pleasure in watching the love of his life die a cruel, painful death. He saw it in the mirror of their bathroom cabinet, that haunting smile on his face, the way he laughed a little, watching the man squirm like a helpless insect, at Harry's mercy, just like Harry was whenever Carl would push him against the wall or punched him in the stomach or slap him in front of their friends — Carl's, Harry did not have friends — or when he'd cut Harry just for a laugh.
The paramedics came after three hours, rushing like Harry had seen in the endless films he watched because that was all he could do. They rained him with questions, the million different scents should have bothered Harry's omega, but he felt nothing. He felt nothing when they declared Carl's death was an accidental overdose, he felt nothing when they lowered his body, he felt nothing when the people threw him looks, as though Harry was the killer.
But he felt nothing.
Gradually, their flat did not smell like Carl's scent anymore. The many corners did not have stubbed cigarettes or splashes of Harry's blood. The flat was given to Harry, since to the world he was Carl's omega, but Harry knew the truth. He was anything but that. Carl was never going to bond him, have pups or start a family. Harry was Carl's plaything, but to Harry, he was his everything.
He hated that he still loved the alpha. Perhaps, it was true, what they say about your first love, that is. It never leaves you, and you try your hardest to not let it go. He was merely fifteen when he had met Carl, a dashing alpha with a impeccable growth, heaven carved muscles with a face that had every omega weak on their knees. He had golden hair and sharp, green eyes, his scent was like a wisp of a forest with indents of burnt cinnamon. He was charming and desirable; everything Harry was not.
