Background Noise [HS]

FIFTEEN

The winter was harsh, unforgiving, merciless. And to think Harry used to dread the season back home in England, which seemed to last year round. No, this winter was worse. This was lonely, far from home, barren. Guilt seeping into his bones like the frigid cold, soaking him to the core. This was his mistakes washed out beneath the pouring rain of a shower, body all but drowning under the heavy stream of water.

T-shirt and jeans clung to his trembling form in a concoction of water and sweat, Harry was freezing.

The tub barely contained his clothed figure. Back pressed to the wall, heels dug into the porcelain, head tossed back whilst the water droplets ran down the jutting column of his neck. The temperature of the apartment was cooler with the absence of bodies to warm it, frigid air biting at the exposed bits of his flesh. He had been in too much of a haste to remove his clothes before clambering into the porcelain tub. The need to rid himself of the filthy feeling that encompassed him overpowered any sense, any sanity he had left.

He felt dirty, worthless.

Now hidden away in the home that belonged to her father, Violet fell victim to slews of questioning and accusations. Hours had passed since her arrival. He was there the moment she tread foot into the foyer, though she passed him without a word and headed for the attic. His anger stewed downstairs until she gave in and made the wary descent down them. Father sat in the living room recliner with his back turned, facing the TV, it took everything she had to will herself to approach him so.

As far from a drinker as anyone could be, the crimson flush of his cheeks stemmed not from alcohol, but anger derived from the split in their relationship that did little to amend it. Even more so when he took sight of her emerging figure. For most men, it would take a bottle or two to send their emotions bubbling up. Not her father, however—that was something he could do all on his own.

"Violet Rae, where have you been?"

It was with an abrupt jerk that Harry turned up the heat of the shower. The mirror fogged, his skin burned. Things were heating up, and in more ways than one. Knuckles a startling white in color, the product of flesh strained over bone, the fists pounding against the porcelain tub mirrored that of her father's hanging at his sides. Only, the latter never dared tread the line that lead frustration to turn violent. Harry reached a point of breaking, the skin covering his knuckles split and oozing an angry, disgusted crimson.

The drenched and bleeding boy cried out.

"Violet, answer me."

Her father's tone was harsh and stern, like a response to his probing questions were long overdue. Perhaps they were, though she found his impatience a little rich, for she recalled asking him the very same only a year ago. Questions that still stood, unanswered—a hopeless shout into the void that echoed over time. The intensity faded out over the months that passed, but its presence still lingered.

It still stung.

"I was out," she told him. Her blue gaze fell upon him with the force of a tsunami backed with every emotion she felt whilst looking to him—a father that broke every vow, every promise to both his wife and daughter like it was nothing. "Just like you . . . I was out."

He stared back, just as ruthless. Violet feared everything about him, in this moment. Feared the look on his face, for words capable of hurt were always sure to follow. "That did not answer my question, Violet. I want to know every detail of your disappearance last night. Where you went, who you were with; I need to know all of it."

"You talk like I have something to hide," she seethed. The memories hurt worse than anything he could say. This was more than an argument; this was sleep lost over waiting for him to come home, sanity slipping through her fingers as her mind reeled at every possibility—there were thousands. "I'm nothing like you. I don't sneak behind people's backs, and I certainly don't deserve to be interrogated like I do."