Chapter 5: That Cheeky Bastard
Let's just say Harry isn't too happy with himself. Harry rarely ever gets drunk, he is against the consumption of a lot of alcohol most days. Harry could be called a bore, but he never liked alcohol or drugs, or any of that. He was pretty oblivious to the whole subject to be honest.
He was really planning on fucking that girl though, until that beautiful creature messed up his toture plans to get himself back for what happened earlier that day in the tattoo parlor.
When Harry woke up the next morning, he sat in bed reading all the drunk texts he sent Louis and reflecting on the night before, when he heard footsteps approach his door.
"Harry! What are you still doing in bed?" Harry's mother asked, standing at Harry's bedroom door. Harry wasn't sure if his mother knew about what happened last night, or if she heard him come in the house. He didn't really care if she did, if he was being honest with himself. But he did care if Libby heard him. He loved Libby with all his heart, more than himself.
Harry didn't answer his mother, he just continued scrolling through his texts on his phone.
"What the hell is on you're arm? What is that, Harry?" She asked, walking over to Harry, standing beside his bed. She snatched his arm away from his phone and examined the tattoo on the underside of his forearm, frowning.
"You got a fucking tattoo!?" Harry watched her face rage with anger. She never liked tattoos, on anyone. She thought they were vulgar, and they shouldn't be put on human bodies.
"Language." Harry spat back, pulling his arm away from her. She opened her mouth with disbelief at her sons actions, lifting a hand and sending it straight across his cheek, leaving a red hand print on Harry's pale skin.
That was it. Harry couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't stand his mother, and the amount of nothing she has ever done for this family. Sure, she works. But that's about it, and she still can't even manage to pay the bills on her own. Harry has to work along with her, barley being able to keep any of the money that he makes to himself. She never spends time with Libby, nor takes her to school or daycare, or cooks for her. Harry does all of that, and he's sick and tired of doing her job for her. He loves Libby, and he loves taking care of her, but his mom needs to get her shit together.
He stood up from his bed in rage, angrily walking over to his dresser and pulling out a T-shirt, swinging it over his head. His mother just stood there, awaiting his further actions. He pulled a pair of jeans up his long torso, letting them hand on his hips before placing his phone in his pocket.
"Where are you going, you fucking goth?" His mother shouted from across the room as Harry made his way toward the door.
"Out. Away from here." He said, placing his hand on the door knob, "And don't forget to take care of your daughter before leaving the house, you careless shit." He said, before shutting the door behind him and making his way to his bike.
Harry heard his mother calling for him from the house, and immediately took off on his bike. He didn't exactly know where he was going. He wasn't working today because she shop closed on Sundays, so he really didn't know where to go.
He pulled out his phone and shot a text to Justin, asking if it was alright for him to stop by for a little bit. Of course Justin said it's fine, so Harry rode his bike over to Justin's house which was about 3 blocks from his.
The entire bike ride consisted of thoughts of his mother, and how irresponsible she is, mixed with thoughts of Louis and what happened last night. He thought long and hard about the events of the past night, and realized that when he woke up he was only in his boxers. He didn't remember taking his clothes off. All he could think about was how they could have possibly been taking off. Did he take them off and not remember? Did someone else do it for him?
