Background Noise [HS]

TWENTY-EIGHT

On days like these, Violet never felt farther from family. Christmas was upon her and yet, she had nothing to show for it—no family sat round the dinner table because quite frankly, there was no piece of furniture big enough to accommodate the rift nor distance between the two people she was most bound to. Parents meant to teach life lessons and doing it in a way that scared her with what it meant to fall in and out of love without the conscious decision to do either, a painful reminder put in place every holiday, every time meant for the gathering of family.

What little she had, had more.

Her father had his new family. The very one he abandoned her and her mother for, the same that wound be prioritized every day after, for he could never bring himself to mistreat them the way he did his first. It angered Violet, how she was left with all this, this pain while he walked away seemingly unscathed, jotting down notes as he went. It was like her mother was his trial run, something he agreed to and put off getting out of before the fine print made itself known, finalizing his commitment.

As if he, with no other option, had decided to settle in a place of permanence with temporary intentions. Stakes buried half-heartedly, inviting of the rain to come and pull them from the dirt.

Violet did not know to whom she should direct her anger—her father, for bearing such selfish tendencies and never once apologizing for it or her mother, for turning a blind eye to the signs and carrying on deafly for years that only tacked on more and more hurt. A raw, crushing hurt that came with realizing she would never look to her loved ones with the utmost admiration ever again, for she could hardly bear a glance in their direction without coming to tears.

Her father hadn't apologized for Beverly. Not for the failed attempt at forcing her to finally meet her, not for the cheating or constant, seamless lies. Any of it.

And he never would.

Fisting a blanket between small fingers, Violet radiated anger in the form of boiling blood and knuckles turned white from the effort of containment. Was practically a volcano ready to blow, if not for the man that steadied her, voice a deep and alluring calm just at her ear. The blood that oozed through her veins like lava cooled to stone at the concerned rasp.

"Violet." Her hands were taken in turn, fingers gently uncurled from their clenched forms. Whereas she would often turn to music in in times like these, the technicolor television offered little upon which to melt in. But that voice—it was her favorite sound. First discovered amidst flashing lights in a chaotic club, now admired and appreciated in the quiet of four walls. No one else were his words meant for—just her. "Lovely, look at me."

Encouraged with the pad of thumb against cheek, the gentle urging was anything but forceful compared to his hard-hitting stare.

"What's wrong?" The concern in his voice—it made her chest ache for other reasons entirely. She could not tell what upset him more: the idea that after all the reconciling, she might possibly still be upset by him or the lack of ability to mend the situation due to the possibility of an outside force. "What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

Her parted mouth sealed itself with a shy smile. It was hard not to be left flustered by his comments, let alone while having her hair twirled around his fingers. Sometime earlier she'd been perfectly content with her body making a bed of his, cheek pressed to chest, eyes glued to the scripted scenes playing across the room. Harry's back was flush with the couch, torso propped upon armrest, hand buried in a fan of hair. They laid like this in the light of day, content before a stormy cloud of gray swept over her.

"Just thinking," she told him, toying with the hem of the shirt she'd borrowed. "I know she isn't real or anything, just a character, but I relate to Ronnie."