Psychotic (A Harry Styles Fanfiction)

Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

HARRY'S POV

Sight. Sound. Touch. Taste. Smell. The common and accepted five senses. All of them experienced throughout each day of your life. I had learned very quickly, though, that these were not all that there was. There was another sense, the sense to feel. And it was not like the sense of touch, to feel a fabric or a smooth surface. It wasn't that kind of feeling, but rather something inside of you. The five senses include the experience of many things, but not pain. Not love. Not fear. And that sixth sense, the sense to feel, was the worst one of all, because it was the only one that existed in my nightmares.

I do not remember touch when I wake up. I do not remember seeing anything to induce fear. I do not remember any horrible sounds, terrible tastes, or bad smells. I only remember feeling. What I had felt I couldn't be sure of but it was something horrible. Maybe it was the pain of being whipped until the skin of my back was nothing but a mess of bloody deep cuts. Maybe it was the horrendous torture of feeling every single nerve, muscle, and bone in my body surging with piercing electric spasms. Or maybe it was the deeper pain of the loss of loved ones that made the nightmares so terrifying.

The one that I had tonight was the worst of them so far. My body shot up so suddenly it hurt, as a course, booming scream tore through my throat. The only thing to be heard was that hoarse shout of insanity echoing throughout the dark halls in the middle of the night. My chest heaved and my body was drenched in my own sweat, hot with sleep-induced adrenaline pumping through my veins. For a moment I was paralyzed with fear and my eyes were wide as they searched for a glimpse of light. I couldn't see and all ideas of where I might be were absent. But then I remembered. Wickendale. Yes, that's where I was. In my cell. It was just a nightmare. The silhouetted horrors that ceased to be remembered weren't real. Or maybe they were, but they weren't present right now. Right now, I was okay. "Fuck," I breathed.

And along with a wave - no, a fucking tsunami - of relief, the senses returned. I could just make out the brickwork of the close walls and barely see my white sheets. I could see my uniform strewn across the floor, stripping down to my boxers during the seemingly hot night with the building being extra heated. Underneath me I could feel the springs in the mattress and the trickle of the sweat on my forehead. I could taste my stale breath and I could hear my own gasps for air. I could smell the must of the dirty place. And, best of all, I felt no pain. It was the first time I was actually happy to be lying in that cell rather than somewhere else.

It would be much better if I had Rose beside me, to calm my vague fears and bring me fully back to reality. But she was a whole corridor away. I wondered what she was doing right now. Did she have the nightmares too? Did she wake up wishing that I was next to her? Or had she been lucky enough to find sleep? There was no way to find out, so all I could do was lean back against the cold wall, sheets clenched in my fists as I tried my best to stay awake.

ROSE'S POV

The word often used for this current state of mine and Harry's was this; cluelessness. Seeming to be plentiful in this word we radiated it. Not only were we at a loss of knowledge in love but also in evasion.

In the more intimate layers of reality where presence was demanded, love was what needed tending to. I had never been rendered enchanted by this mystical spell, and Harry had all but once. But considering that this time he was under differing circumstances, we were both strangers to the feeling. And, despite what everyone says, love had thus far been beautifully easy.

This fact of love should have calmed me, as most would accept it and use it to infuse happiness. But there was another layer of reality.

And this was the certainty that escape was vital. We needed to elude this hell and we needed to do it as quickly as possible. But much like with love, we weren't exactly experts. Neither of us had escaped a mental institution before. And the happy breeze of our fondness for one another did little to disguise the weight of the task at hand. If anything, it only made it heavier. All that we had were vague ghosts of ideas, thoughts that were hardly even thoughts on how to get out of here. We would first need a map, or maybe just a simple drawing of Wickendale, to find a possible exit.