One More Day (H.S.) #wattys2016

Twenty-Fifth Night

Harry

I'm always here in your heart, love. I'll come back for you.

"Liar." I gurgled and I realise where I was.

As I stand using the top of the sink to push myself up, I face the mirror seeing my reflection for the first time since I left and went to Dolly's apartment.

Bloodshot eyes, a bruise hiding beneath my unruly hair and skin that was white as the marble material of the bathroom.

"You're drunk again sir."

These were Samuel's words of greeting as I exit the bathroom, where I, for some reason, ended up sleeping in.

"Good, what? Is it still morning? Or..."

"It's ten in the evening sir. Oh goodness! What happened to your head?"

"Then, good evening to you too, Samuel." I did a clumsy curtsy, oblivious to my staggering state.

I bumped my shoulder on the wall, knock out some of the furniture and accidentally punched Samuel in my attempt to climb the damn stairs.

"Why can't I get up there?" I point to the top landing of the stairs that leads to my office. It was waving like I was underwater.

"Sir, you need to stay put, else you'll hurt yourself."

"Get me up there! Now!"

"Okay."

We ascended and finally reach the top of the stairs.

I push Sam aside, saying, "I can take it from here".

"Let me just--"

"I don't need your help, Samuel." I pat his head and he gives me a scowl which I pathetically laugh to.

Damn. I'm totally intoxicated. I'm well aware of my surroundings, but as per usual, when I get too drunk, I can't control my actions.

"The director is coming next month, sir.
That is two weeks from now."

My somewhat euphoric aura dissipates at the mere mention of the most formidable member of my family.

"She could visit whenever she wants, for all I care." I ventured into my office, which is also my room, and head straight to the mini bar to fill myself a glass of whisky.

This is where I'm good at. Drowning my confused thoughts and oppressing problems with liquor and alcohol. But there's one thing I can't seem to flood away, no matter how many drinks I've had.

"The director--"

"Stop addressing her so formally," I brandished the glassful of whisky which contents were threatening to spill on Samuel.

"Sir, you're drinking again."

"Who do you work for huh?"

"Um, you, sir."

"Exactly." I nodded, closing my eyes groggily.

"Your grandmother--"

"Don't even use that term." I sat behind my desk and raise my feet on it, crossing my legs.

"Okay, sir." Samuel murmured, scratching his temple. "Mrs. Styles--"

"There you go!"

"--received a message from Alfred Schopenhauer."

"Feh! I especially don't want to hear about them." I said, utterly flippant of the subject.

"Sir, your sister was furious. She almost had me killed as I kept on avoiding her queries of your whereabouts. Hitherto, her assistant is trying her best to make the phone explode."