autobiography // h.s. au (sequel to the writer)

chapter 6

I'd once said to Will, my ex-fiancé, that the love he and I had was a love that would last, and what I had - have - with Harry was one that would fade away. Now, in my present, while reflecting on my past, I wonder about the validity of the statement. I do wonder what my life would be like now if my love with Will had been the one that had lasted, and the one with Harry was the one that faded away. 

I think with the overly strong feelings Harry and I have shared, explored and felt for each other, it seems almost like it is a love that only lasts a few short months, and you look back on it later in life and get nostalgic at the fact you were once so infatuated, but you don't miss it. Harry and I decided it was something we wanted to make work. And it worked for a while, and we were in a sort of sickly love. But now it's faded away, just like I said to Will.

In this moment, though, the love seems to almost float back into my heart, as if it had decided to go away for while and take a break. I look into Harry's eyes, and I see a man that is mine, body and soul. His mind, an intellectual masterpiece, is in love with mine. His body touches mine and his heart beats like mine. It feels trivial that our love seemed to have faded away, but I'm lost of that feeling now.

"You look hot. Like, I'd like to take you outside just to have you on my arm so everyone who walks by knows that you're mine, hot," Harry says. He runs a hand down the
length of my body, from the sharp of my jaw to the ankle hooked around the back of his hips.  I can feel what I used to: the hairs on my body jumping with energy, filled with vitality from the slightest drag of his fingers against my skin. 

However, the feeling lasts only a moment; it passes through my mind like a gust of wind, and leaves me cold, and flushed, caught in a moment of uninhibited emotions. I'm stuck on Harry's branch of words, claiming he wants me on his arm to ensure everyone knows I'm his. 

"You don't own me."

Harry stares at me. He knows I'm not a woman to be played with, told what to do, going with the grain. He knows I want to be a strong woman, but he forgets. He says shit like that and it makes me want to blow. He speaks without thinking. He only regrets what he says when he's told to regret it.

"I know I don't own you. But we're together, you're mine and I'm yours," he says, trying to consolidate what he's said. It only made it worse.

"I don't want you to be mine. That's too big a responsibility."

His face swiftly shifts from desire to that of irritation. I know when his thoughts change, when he tries to sort through the magnitude of ideas running through his mind. His bottom lip dips open, and his tongue slides across it's dry skin. He will drop back - onto a wall, a seat, the floor - and rest his hands on his frowned forehead. 

I see his lip dip down, his tongue slip out, and his body shift weight and rest against the kitchen counter. He mumbles. What do you mumble, partner? 

Eyes meet. The forest of his clashes with the ocean of mine. How two things as such could become one seems a trivial possibility now. The forest does not see the ocean, and the ocean does not venture to the forest, yet they are together. How are they together? 

Although, the forest needs water, and the ocean has flora, yet these menial connections are of no significance. For all forests need water, and all oceans have flora, and these things do not make them special. 

The forest needs the Sun, to shine through it's tall branches and give light and warmth. The forest needs heat in the depth of its woodland. 

And the ocean needs the moon, to conduct its tide, and help in subtlety. The ocean needs the night to reach its potential. 

So how have the forest and ocean been brought together? How are they attempting to work together when nature calls for their separation? 

"Why do we bother anymore?" Harry mumbles. 

Because we made a destructive choice. I ruined a man's life, left him broken and angry for a relationship I had no experience in. No qualifications to succeed within. Now, I must stay with my decision. I must be confident. 

"I suppose we love each other," I mumble back. 

Roaring in a manor I've never seen him reach before, Harry paces around the kitchen, hands flying, mind racing, thoughts tumbling out of his mouth at a mile a minute. 

"You suppose? You suppose we're in love? If this is love, Alexis, I don't want a thing to do with it."

I'm not sure I should respond, or if I even can. He's speaking so fast I think he'll lose all sense of language, entering a degree of speech where words don't have meaning, but are said anyway.

But I must speak up. 

"Leave me then, Harry," I suggest, bitter tone, resentful eyes burning holes into the back of his shirt. 

He bites. He rips. He roars. Loud, thunderous - his voice could summon lightning. 

"How can I leave you, Alexis? It's like you're my life force - like my entire being is so attached to yours, the moment you were to go I'd fall apart, to ashes on the ground." He's entered the living room, yelling to me in the eerily cold kitchen. Take a seat, lover. Rest your head and vent your mind. 

Every word leaving his mouth makes me more infuriated. How could he leave me. I'm his life force. He'd fall apart without me. I've heard it all before. Where have I heard it all before? 

"Don't go all sudo-intellectual writer bullshit on me, Harry. Metaphors and similes won't help you worm your way out of the hole you've dug yourself," I bite. I rip. I roar. 

Softly, strangely, he says he "can't help that his mind works that way. If only you could understand, Alexis." 

If only I could understand. Living, breathing Alexis could understand. How could I forget? How could I not see its lingering presence, lurking in the depths of our relationship. It was what hurt me the first time, what made me hesitant the second, and what will ruin us in the third chapter of this twisted love story. 

"Who would understand that mind of yours, Harry?" I softly respond. He's silent in reverence. He can sense where I'm going, knows what I'm hinting at. He won't reply. For years he's avoided the topic, or better said, the idea of her. 

"Don't..." Harry begins to step in, back himself up. Save himself from the Freudian psycho-babble I'm about to suggest. 

"I think Alice would."