The Merciless (h.s.)

Chapter Eight

Arabella

My roommate has been acting particularly strange for the past few weeks.

Sitting against my hard bedpost draped in fairy lights, alone on this Friday afternoon, has become an unfortunate repetitive routine of mine. The days seem to pass by at a slower pace individually, but blur together when I try to recollect anything memorable my mind might be seeking. The only exciting thing that has happened to me that I can instinctively recall is the new black trench coat, along with some other fancy clothes, I sprang on while scrolling through an online boutique for the pure need of some form of entertainment.

The last time Elle and I spoke to each other for more than thirty seconds was when I decided to confront her about her little slip up. Elle admitted that she deliberately lied and refused to tell me the truth. She didn't even have the decency to try and dig herself further into the lie. She just gave up the minute I drew up my defenses.

I haven't been able to stare into her eyes long, the unsinkable feeling of rejection and abandonment staking it's claim in my mind whenever I take the chance.

Maybe I am overreacting. In fact, I know I am. Whatever Elle and her little clique are hiding is without a doubt, one hundred percent, none of my business. I have absolutely zero rights to be giving Elle this silent treatment, or to be icing her out the way that I am in the first place. I just can't help it.

Why can't I know? Why is it me that can't be in on this dirty little secret? Why am I jealous that Harry and Elle know something that I don't? Why does Harry act like I do know something that I'm not supposed to? All of these questions bounce off the borders of my brain, like a ricocheting bullet, whenever Elle musters up the courage to start a conversation. It makes me bitter instantly.

At first, I had convinced myself this confidentiality has to be for something stupid. Something minuscule. I'm working myself up for nothing.

But then strange things started happening.

That Monday after the frat house fiasco, I woke up at my usual time of around seven thirty in the morning. I swiftly got ready for my classes and bustled out of the door to get to my first hour at the precise time of five minutes before the class begun. I remember that the entire walk there I was chewing on my nail beds, my anxiety practically eating me alive with every step I took towards the Psychology building. I barely remember walking through the corridors or even stepping onto the elevator. I just recall walking through the classroom door, my eyes darting to the back corner, and seeing the seat usually occupied by Harry's skin crawling stare empty.

And it stayed like that for these last three weeks.

Every Introduction to Psychology lesson and every Biology lab, within the past twenty one days, Harry has not attended a single one of them.

I'm not sure what measure of survival instinct is missing from my genetic makeup. I don't know why my body builds up a pool of nervous yet expectant sweat whenever I go through a closed door, just to feel a pang of...something after I eventually realize Harry is not behind it. I'm not sure why I would settle for the dirtiest glare or the most vile words thrown at me rather than the latter of not seeing him at all.

It's comically ironic that Harry was a no show for the Psychology lessons that centered on the introduction of mind disorders. The DSM-5 has hundreds of pages deciphering behaviors, symptoms if you will, and what they mean when it comes to mental illness. As I sat in the back of the classroom and copied the words from the PowerPoint, I couldn't help but get lost in thought whenever I could match one of the given symptoms to Harry's personality. I even color-code my notes so that anything relating to Harry and his astounding mind stands out in bright pink ink instead of black.