Insane - Who Are You To Judge? (Gripping Psychological Thriller)

Chapter 3 - Harry

Half four. Have to be up in three hours. Fucking great. Harry lies staring into the cracks of his ceiling, counting them as if they are sheep to no avail.

His body is not willing to sleep. He groans lightly, sits up and plants his feet on the cold wooden floor. Cupping his face in his hands, he strokes the bristles on his cheeks and neck before throwing himself up and stumbling down to the kitchen.

He tries to stop his body from shivering by throwing his arms around himself in a pathetic attempt at comfort.

We've got to fix the bloody heating in this hell-hole, he complains to the draught brushing through his leg hairs, knowing that the chances of this being accomplished are slim.

"Lighter...lighter..." he mumbles to himself as he snatches the pack from the counter. Harry rustles through all the drawers and pats down the kitchen sides in an urgent attempt.

Why is there no fucking lighter anywhere? he grumbles, but he quickly gives up his search and bends down over the cooker with the fag in his mouth as the gas fills his nostrils and the embers blaze.

Stepping outside into their overgrown garden, Harry breathes in the musky chemicals that his lungs want to resist, but eventually give in to and he closes his eyes as he enjoys the gratifying feeling. Although his hands will not remain steady, he sighs in satisfaction. A small part of his emptiness has been filled.

Harry wants to think. He wants to feel. He wants a sense of pleasure that lasts longer than the life of a cigarette. He stares at the vacant, black sky. If you were to see him, you'd assume he is deep in thought, worlds away. But his mind is blank and all he feels is the crisp wintry air of March hitting his unprepared skin.

When the wind slams the door shut behind him making his way back inside, he winces and hesitates, listening to see if the echoing has woken Martha. Thinking the coast is clear, he begins making his way across the kitchen and through the hall.

Harry's toe suddenly catches behind him, taking him off balance. His head plummets and suddenly his vision is at an angle and his cheek is flattened by the stone cold tiles. Everything fades to black.

A ringing thrashing through his head brings him back to consciousness and he sways, uneasy, as he tries to hoist himself into a seated position.

His vision will not focus and the furniture is dancing around the room. With the urgent need to vomit, Harry determines that he perhaps isn't as sober as he thought.

Cradling his head, Harry scans for what caught him and there on the floor, the corner of the rug curls upwards, proud of its trickery. Some of Martha's ornaments have fallen off the mantelpiece. Not broken, thank God. And a picture frame lies cracked in front of him.

Harry stares, emotionless, at the beaming couple clinging on to each other with the sun burning their cheeks and their golden beagle pulling them along the pier.

At first, it is as if he hardly recognised his parents, but gradually the corners of his mouth twitch as he becomes a child again and is taken back to that afternoon.

Dad had just got a promotion at work, so we went to Brighton for a day by the sea. I was only nine and had only been to the beach a couple times that I could remember. I was so excited to splash across the seashore and make sandcastles and play fetch with Lucy.

The sun was shedding golden dust, the sky was as clear as the sea. Both Mum and Dad's faces were lit up with elation; they spoilt me all day. They bought me ice creams and toys and an "I Heart Brighton" fridge magnet. We went on the Ferris wheel, to the museum, to the park...

We bought a disposable camera and Mum let me take photos of everything. We were so happy.

Little Lucy was going crazy. It was the first time she'd ever seen the sea and she wouldn't stop jumping around in it, splashing her paws into the waves and lapping up the white horses as they came charging into shore. Every time she came out, she ran up to us and jumped on me because I was small and covered me in sand, water and smelly bits of seaweed.

As the sun began to lower in the sky, we walked back along the pier and headed home. Lucy and I were so tired that we slept the entire journey home.

Poor Lucy. At least she had a fun last day.

Harry is jolted back into the present by Martha bellowing down to him. Once he regains his bearings, he dabs the tear from his eye with the knuckle of his thumb.

"I'll be up in a couple of minutes, babe," Harry replies as he grabs the picture frame, placing it on the mantelpiece and shoving the memory to the back of his mind again.

He hastens into the kitchen and fills up a glass half-empty. Tiptoeing back upstairs, Harry punches the landing light switch and crawls back into bed.

"What were you doing?" Martha slurs her words, half-asleep.

He plants a soft kiss on her forehead and replies, "was just getting some water, go back to sleep." Martha has already settled back to sleep, a wave of calm washing over her face.

Harry strokes the hair from Martha's face and looks down upon her. He wills himself to feel. He wills himself to see her and get a sparkle in his eye. To see her as his whole world and all he needs and will ever need.

No such luck. Harry's stomach sinks and he sighs with the discovery. Perhaps he has felt too much too soon. Perhaps he has become numb to love.

He pictures her. He fixates on her. He examines every curve of her body, every crease in her smile, every line on her hands. With her image in his mind, Harry finally finds peace in his subconscious.