Concentration

Chapter three

Harry's POV:

My feet hit hard on the pavement and my chest rises and falls angrily. I stopped counting the miles I've ran after the filth mile. My muscles ache from their excessive use. This is the life of a solider, at least, this is the life of this soldier. A soldier is expected to be in impeccable physical condition whilst they deteriorate your mental state. Exercise, the camp, and sleep consume my existence leaving no time for leisure.

Today though, this run has a different purpose. What little sleep I was graced with my unconscious tainted with visions of her which carried over into my conscious state. With each lunge I take, I see her. With every gasp of the chilled morning air I bring into my strained lungs, I feel her. It's like she's everywhere but nowhere all at once. Her touch lingering on me but it's so light that it's teasing. So I run faster. And faster. No matter how hard I physically exert my body her image is still permanently burned into my memory and her hands still roam my body, there being no remedy to ward off the nightmare she left behind in her wake. It's a fucking sick game my mind is playing on me but I can't seem to find my divine move.

I make it back to my flat as the sun creeps it's it's way into the morning sky, giving it's shining promise of another day. I kick my trainers off as I enter my flat, tossing my keys onto the kitchen table as I pass by it on my way to the toilet- my body needing cleansing after what it just endure. My black, hooded jumped is heavy from absorbing my perspiration as I peel it off my body and toss it into the clothes hamper.

I am left standing in nothing but socks and my athletic shorts that hang low on my hips. I stare at the reflection that is looking straight back at me, this is not the man I was just a short time ago. Would my mum and sister even recognize me now? Even if the did recognize the capsule of the man standing in from of them, the wouldn't recognize me when I spoke. H is gone. Now it's Styles, soldier number 165998.

My hair has grown out, now tied back in a bandana and damp from sweat. Numerous of black marking ink my flesh, going down my arms and torso. Some of my tattoos have meanings behind them, and some where just a drunken "why not" spare of the moment decision. The swallows etched onto my chest just under my collarbones and the butterfly engraved into my diaphragm both symbolize freedom, something I, and so many others, crave. The sailboat on my bicep is my longing to sail back to England; I should have left when I had the chance. The Styles going across the span of my broad shoulders was to show that this war has not only changed me mentally but physically as well.

I drop my shorts and step into the warm stream of my shower water. I no longer can tolerate looking at my reflection, negativity narrows it's eyes at me in a devious way, waving it's clawed hand.

I stand under the steady stream of water, looking down and watching the beads of water race down the creases of my toned abdominal and run off my body. My hair curtains around my face and one of my arms lean against the shower wall as I recall the events from last night and the new shipment, but the only thing I seem to be able to remember is the light brown eyes that stared up at me.

There was no doubt in my mind that she was beautiful, no that was easy to distinguish at just a glance. Her beauty, though it was natural and shocking, is not what made me stare so intently at her. It was the look in her eyes. She still had fight left in her, this the Nazi hadn't taken from her.

A hundred and one questions about this brown eyed stranger run through my mind as I get dressed for my only off day I was granted for the next two weeks. I knew the thoughts in my head were wrong to have. I can't let my mind get curious about any of the prisoners because with information comes emotion and with emotion comes attachment. I cannot and will not let myself get attached to anyone at that camp, it's dangerous territory that I will not let myself explore. I turn my brain off and head to the only person who can seem to channel somewhat of the H that has been buried. The only person who can still make me laugh and forget about the shit situation I'm in. My mate Niall.