Stall

Chapter 60.

"Oh, holy night
It's become something I just despise
And my hands have done so much wrong, I'm afraid it's not me who decides"

***

Harry had another nightmare last night.

I don't know if seeing David yesterday triggered something in him, but it was worse than the last one. He was a mess.

He didn't go into detail about what happened, just said if David knows what's good for him he won't come near me again.

Spite is such a new and unfamiliar feeling to me, but I found myself hoping that David was shown even the tiniest amount of what Harry has been through, what he caused for him, I wanted him to hurt too for what he had done.

We were at my place, and I'm thankful nothing was broken with the breakdown he had.

It took him a while to realise I was in the room with him, or where he even was, muttering to himself about needing medicine and wanting it all to stop.

It's agonising, to watch someone you care about so much to through that and to just have to watch it, knowing you can't crawl inside their mind and stop it.

Once I managed to show him I was there, keeping him close and telling him he was safe, I did just what I had done last time, took him into the shower to wash away the sweat, and coaxed him back into bed.

He was lost in his head more than usual, and I just sat on the bed with his head in my lap while he was curled up to me, trying to give any reassuring touches I could.

I don't know how he's gone through this on his own for so many years, it would destroy anyone, I don't know how he's survived.

I understand the drinking and drugs now, if I had to feel even a quarter of what looks like happens to him, I wouldn't want to feel anything either.

I had asked him a question, I so badly wish he hadn't answered, because it crushed me.

I asked, what the dream was about, gently trying to piece together what happens to have him like this.

He didn't answer straight away, just turned onto his back with his head in my lap and took my hand, taking it to various places on the tattoos covering his torso and arm, running my fingertips over them.

I was confused when I felt the texture of some of them, I'd never noticed before, because you can't see them under the ink unless you really look under the right light, but there were scars there.

They were all the same shape, all round, some bigger and more prominent than others.

"I was dreaming about how I got these" he had said quietly, watching my finger traces over his skin.

"What are they?" I had asked, sounding as heartbroken as I felt.

"Burns" was all he mumbled, and I could've choked on the pain in my chest.

I always found his tattoos beautiful, but now they're also devastating because I know what they're covering.

How could anyone hurt another person like this? The thought of how he got those burns has me wanting to throw up my own heart.

He saw how upset I was, and for some reason he thought saying "It's okay, I deserved it" would make me feel better.

I didn't mean to scold him, but I was so worked up with emotion I couldn't help it.

I held his face and made him look me in the eyes, feeling so confused by wanting to slap him for saying something like that about himself and wanting to hug him and never let him go.