✓ Wrong Moves and Knife Wounds /h.s./

[03] anxiety and an a.m. phone call

living room

He's remembering her.

It's nearly four in the morning and all he's thinking about is her. His new apartment is packed with boxes with elegant handwriting inked to the cardboards and he should've emptied them yesterday but now he's laying on the floor because the moving people never brought in his bed and he can't stop thinking of her.

There's her standing in front of the mirror. Wearing long sleeves. She lifts her hands to fix her hair as he's watching her, and the sleeves fall ever so slightly. Just enough for him to see the irritated scars on the inside of her wrists.

He closes his eyes and fights the anxiety creeping into his chest. He doesn't want to move but his inhaler is somewhere in the packed living room and he doesn't have time. He doesn't have time to look for it.

There's her months later standing in front of the same mirror. Her lips aren't pulled into a smile, but she's wearing a short sleeved shirt and there are only faint scars on the insides of her wrists. He's watching her from the bed as she hurriedly brushes her hair back and away from her face, talking about how badly she wants to cut her hair and how she also wants to cut his hair. The conversation only has half of his attention because her wrists are almost clear and she's making progress. She's not smiling, but she hasn't done anything to harm herself and she's making progress.

Harry's lips part and he forces himself to breathe. Not enough oxygen is passing through his lungs and his skin is burning. His skin is burning with her. He's remembering her, lying on the living room floor and wishing he were back in his old one with her wrapped around him.

There's her standing in front of the mirror again. Getting ready to leave for the night like she did every Thursday. She's back to her long sleeves. Only now it's a turtleneck and her eyes are really dark. She looks sick, he thinks, but he's too busy watching her to ask if something is wrong. There's a post-it note on the glass. Something he put there a while back. It reads I love you, but he's not so sure she knows it's true because in an instant, her shaking hand reaches up and tears it right off. He's too busy looking at the way her sleeve drops to reveal fresh scars on her wrists to feel hurt.

Harry's hand digs in his pocket and he pulls out his phone, ready to call the ambulance. He calls them when things get hectic. When he can't breathe at night and his skin is burning and he doesn't know where his inhaler is. But a paper falls out and he stares at it for just a moment before dialing the number sprawled on it.

Everything is falling apart because he really thought he had her. He really thought she was changing. Feeling something. He almost got her. There were times when he thought he almost saw her smile or laugh. There were times he thought he almost saw her looking at him when he was looking at something, but he knows now that the possibility of that was close to nothing. For a moment she was wearing short sleeves and her eyes weren't as dead as they used to be and he really thought he had her, but he didn't.

He doesn't think he ever really had her. Not even a touch of her.

The ringing against his ear pulls him from his thoughts but Penelope is never really forgotten. She's never put on the back burner of his mind. She is his mind. And on the third ring, a voice answers and he reminds himself that it's all for Pen. Everything he's ever done for the past three years has been for her.

"Hello?" The voice says quietly. It's four in the morning now and he should feel sorry for calling so early in the morning, but he can't breathe and his doctors suddenly don't make him feel safe. Not after they kept him in the same room for more than a day last time he kept thinking of her. Not after they examined him and saw the scratch marks on his neck and chest and arms.

They didn't understand that he felt dirty. Still feels dirty.

"Is anyone there?"

Everything about Penelope is written in his head and sewn onto his lips. He just needs someone to translate her and the person who can do that is on the other end of the phone. She's a ten-digit number and she can help him understand where it all went wrong. He sighs delicately into the receiver, his breath still not quite even but getting there. He doesn't know why his heart is trying to tear its way out of his chest, but it's hitting hard against his ribs and his legs won't stop shaking with anxiety. "I'm sweating," he manages to say between soft pants and a slight whimper. "My heart might be contracting and there's this shadow in front of me that reminds me of--my heart is beating too hard. What's wrong with me?"

"Anxiety," the girl responds softly. She sounds calm. Harry wants to switch places with her. Not think about Penelope and the fact that she isn't here because he didn't do anything to stop her from leaving. It's all his fault. Since the moment she met him, every bad thing that has happened between them and to her has been his fault. "Just anxiety. What are you worked up about?"

"Nothing." He shakily sits up. Keeps his head down as he shakily walks toward the front door. He presses a hand against his chest and opens the door after knocking over too many boxes labelled KITCHEN. To his dismay, a knife falls out. Anxiety?

In an instant, he's stumbling down the exit staircase and pushing himself through the lobby doors. The doorman doesn't say anything. Just watches him fall to his knees when he gets outside. The air refreshes him and he almost catches his breath.

"I'm freaking out. I think- I think I'm dying."

"You're not dying," she says. She sounds tired. Maybe calling her was a mistake. "You're not dying. You just need to breathe and stop talking. Focus on breathing and then you can tell me why you called."

He bows his head and keeps his eyes closed. Behind him, the security guard is telling him something he can't hear. He's focusing on his breathing, evening it until he can finally say something without sounding as panicked as he feels. "I'm sorry."

"Are you in any danger?"

"Just in my head," he answers truthfully. That's where Penelope is. Always in his head and in his heart and making his whole body feel heavy.

She's everywhere because her blood was everywhere.

He can't get her out of his head. The way she smiled at him before she died. She pressed a small kiss to his lips to remind him of what he had done to her. And she's written in his head and sewn onto his lips and he needs someone to translate her for him. Needs the girl on the other end of the phone to disect his dead girlfriend and be the one person to know it was all his fault.

"What's in your head? What are you thinking about?"

"I want to see you," he says quietly, pulling his knees up and sitting comfortably on the wet cement. It's really cold and he's wearing a short sleeved shirt, but the temperature is the least of issues when his mind is a bloodbath of Penelope.

"Now?"

"Yes," he breathes against the phone. "I need your help and- and I can't do anything over a phone."

"I don't know where you are."

"I'll send you my address."

There's a moment of silence. Then: "What's your name?"

"Harry."

Silence. "Nice to meet you, Harry. My name is Rory."