Violent Delights [h.s]

Chapter 3

"Sure" I replied immediately, glad that he was not intending to kill himself anymore, and that my attempt to help him had succeeded. For now.

After he got up, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding in. Although I felt like my duty to save the man about to end his own life was now done, my curious side wanted to know more about him, more about his story. He held out his hand for me, to help me get up, and I immediately thanked him for his courtesy.

I wondered what part of my speech made him stay, what were the exact words he heard that made him think "I'm not doing this", but I could never ask him something as personal as that.

Now that we were both up and safe, I took a chance to properly observe the confusing human being I had just met. His messy curly hair was dark brown and uneven, he was tall, and his toned arms were covered in ink; I bet he had a story for every single one of his tattoos, and I found myself getting drowned in my own thoughts, wondering if he regretted any of those, and what had caused him to want to put ink through his skin; what was the meaning behind that?

He interrupted me from my thoughts by saying:

"Erm... I sort of threw my keys into the water... Both my house and car keys... I figured I wouldn't be needing them anymore, you know..."

"Do you have any friends whose house you can stay at?" I asked, regretting it almost immediately. Less than five minutes earlier he was confessing to me how he had no friends, yet here was I asking him if he could stay at a friends' house.

He looked at the floor shrugging. "I guess I could stay at my parents'..." he said, in an insecure tone. He was considering staying at his' parents who didn't care about him as he had told me earlier? And how would he explain them how he'd "accidentally" lost his keys? What if I offered him my house to stay at? I had a guests room that I'd never used, so now seemed like an appropriate time to give it use. Would he accept it though?

"You could stay at my house, if you'd like? I mean, you wouldn't have to bother explaining your parents how you ended up losing your keys accidentally? And for what you've told me before, it-"

"Are you sure?" he interrupted quickly in his raspy voice, his eyes sparkling with hope, just as if this was the first time someone was actually willing to do something for him, to help him. I nodded at him as a response, and he flashed me a genuine, yet still hurt smile.

"Follow me" I said, as I walked back to where I had parked my car before seeing him. The sun was already long gone, and I realized I hadn't got any ice cream after all.

"Would you mind if we made a quick stop at the supermarket near my place? I was on my way to get some ice cream before..." I stopped myself from saying anything I'd regret later.

He nodded comprehensively, as if he was thanking me for my choice of words (or lack of it, considering the fact I decided not to mention the incident).

"How old are you, Violet?"

"22."

"What do you do? For a living, I mean."

"I work for a news magazine... I sort of write articles."

"Sort of?" he asked curiously. This felt good, having someone genuinely interested in my life.

"Well, it depends on what they need me to do. It goes from writing lame chronicles to having to interview people and writing the article all by myself."

"Why are your chronicles lame? Are you a bad writer?"

"I guess that depends on what you like to read."

"You've got a point there." he said.

When we arrived the supermarket, Harry asked me to stay in the car, and I agreed to it as I wouldn't take much time buying the ice cream anyways. I always got the cheapest one I could find: to my uncontrollable sobs in the middle of the night, the flavor of the ice cream was what mattered the least. Generally, I only cared about having something sweet to calm down my sugar cravings whenever I was feeling down. Which was most of the time, actually.

When I returned to the car, Harry was scanning through my CD collection.

"Are these yours?" he asked.

"Yes... Do you like any of those bands?"

"Most of them, actually..." he said, his eyes never leaving the CD's. My music taste went from Jack Johnson to Young the Giant, and it felt good knowing someone shared my preferences in the music field.

"May I?" Harry asked, pointing to the car's CD player. Harry was revealing to be an incredibly polite individual. After I nodded at his request, he proceeded to press play to John Mayer's "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room". Undoubtedly, one of my favorite songs of all the time.

"This is one of my favorite songs, do you like it?" he asked, as if he'd been reading my mind.

"It's actually one of my favorite songs too." I replied, causing us both to smile.

The rest of the car ride was quick and silent, and when we arrived my house, Harry quickly grabbed the bag from the supermarket before I could get to it.

"It's the least I could do." he replied. I smiled at him, before getting out of the car and locking it behind me. As we got inside the house, Harry's eyes started wandering around, examining first the bookshelf I had in the kitchen with a ridiculous amount of cooking books my mom had got me, in a failed attempt of making me improve my cooking skills, then the one I kept in living room. This one contained all of my favorite books of all the time, as well as the books my inner procrastinator self hadn't read yet.

"Make yourself at home, will you?" I told him with a warm smile, as I placed the ice cream on the freezer. He walked over to the living room as I followed him, and I sat on the couch as he stood there glancing at my books again.

"Do you live by yourself?" he asked out of nowhere, his piercing green eyes meeting mine.

"Yes, why?"

"Well, for no reason really. That was the way I came up with to find out if these books were all yours and if you had a boyfriend."

"I thought I'd told you earlier how I didn't believe in everlasting love?"

"Oh Violet. How many love stories in the world do you believe to be real and everlasting?" he said with a condescending smile, his eyes never leaving mine, and I understood what he said. People held on to relationships not for the love they felt, but because they feared being alone. They feared themselves. The mention from Harry of books made me wonder about what he wrote. He told me he worked as an editor, and that he liked to write, and I couldn't help but to feel extremely curious towards Harry's writing. Hurt souls are, without a doubt, the best writers, and something told me Harry's soul was a very hurt one.

"What do you write Harry?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you told me you worked as an editor, and that you loved to write. Did I get that wrong?"

He smiled, flattered at the fact that someone was curious about his life. Just as I had felt eariler at the car, when it was him asking me questions.

"Oh no, you didn't." he smiled. "Mostly, I just do the editing part, and keep the writing to myself. I feel like if i spread what I write too much, people might interpretate it wrong. And how I'd hate for my most intimate thoughts to be wrongly interpretated!" he said with an amusing smile that caused me to laugh.

I was starting to see a whole new side of him that the heat of the moment he had been through before had pushed away; a talkative eloquent person, who had much more in common with me that I could realize.

-----

a/n: im so sorry if Harry's still a bit too shy, but you have to understand that he has just been through something awful, which is the attempt of commiting suicide! he will get back to his cheeky self in no time, don't worry ;)