blue (book one) - h.s. ✔️ watty's 2019

chapter 87 - Harry's soliloquy

"And you don't remember anything from the last couple of hours?" I ask, growing excited at the information.

"No, everything before the crash and after my day with Jax is nonexistent. Anytime I try to think about it my head pounds," he groans, rubbing his temples lightly.

I ended up staying overnight with him. I'm more than shocked to learn that his memory of. . . well, everything worth knowing is gone. I can't help but feel like this is some strange, incomprehensible second chance given to me through a divine intervention; a second chance for me to right my wrongs. It's strange because he tells me that he feels that he should be angry with me, but he doesn't know why. This makes me think of his words back at his house. When he yelled at me that we were toxic together - well, after I stupidly declared it first. How he was sick for finding excuses to prolong his time in our relationship. Is his memory loss some extreme, alternate manifestation of his devoted love and care for me? A subconscious, intangible form of his perseverance and unwillingness to see the disaster that I am?

I'm really not sure why this has happened, but honestly, I don't really care. Yes, I care about the dark-haired boy's safety and recovery, but I can't rid the giddiness that overwhelms me at a fresh start. A second chance for things to be how they once were. I fucked up. I know it. But there's no way for me to take back everything I've said and done. I wish that there was, but life has never been that kind to me. . . until now. It fucking tore my insides up hearing him say we weren't good together. When he walked out that front door, my entire world, security left with him. I entered this darkness I feared I'd never climb out of. But this. I've never been big on religion, but if there is a God, this has to be what he's made of: forgiveness. A second chance. In the words of a great, 'But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.' There's something eerily true about what that eldritch English playwright spoke. It'd be savegely cruel for someone with love and care and kindness to be ripped from me forever.

In the midst of my destruction, I found a piece of torn paper ripped out of one of his romance novels, again, adressed with the intention of it remaining an apostrophe, though I know it was written to me, even if he wanted to keep it secret. The instruments of Darkness tell us many truths.

Bending down, I look to see 'Harry Edward Styles' etched into the one of the blank pages of his favorite romance novel: now aware of what it means to be put into the rough, worn out paper.

Dear Nothingness,

I'm not afraid of who I use to be; I've come to learn that my past is something I just have to accept.

That part of moving on with your life is experiecing and owning this moment. If you had asked me a year ago, what I wanted from this life, my answer would've been simple: easy. Of course, then, I didn't know him. I don't think that he's necessarily a bad person, or the monster some paint him out to be. And at the same time, that doesn't mean that I think he's good.

I've tried scrapping and rebuilding myself, but I'm not sure if I want what I once had. I'm drawn to his destruction and chaos. Colour me alive and I'll paint you dead. I'm not obsessed with him. I'm more more obsessed with the danger he helps me to achieve. Is this what makes me masochistic? All that I ever want to be is submerged in his depleting essence - his ocean.

It scares me how much I've come to be fascinated with darkness. How I've created this dark paradise with the damned boy; Hades could never fathom.

I now know.

Darkness, please, take me and own me.

Sincerely yours,

Parker Evans Drue

Never would I ever have thought that I could have this much control over one human. Never would I ever have thought that I could experience a love like his. I could care less. There's no fucking way I am letting him get away from me; he's mine. You just don't reel someone in, change everything about them, and then spit them out. I've fucked up. I'm well aware of that now.

God, if I be forced to live without him, compell this flesh to melt to the ground. Possess me with Death and send me to my rightful, heated chamber. For I am without the one I love. If the world works so cruel as to take from me the only one I've ever been besotted with, take me away with him. Though we may end in separate places, our hearts remain intertwined. And if, by the grace of Love, we stand another chance, I shall run with it. Far away into a sweet, sweet new existence. I have wised to know that I am with many detestable disgraces; a blemished work of Van Gogh. Only that Van Gogh has rightfully chosen to let me fall into the depths of despair, along with all of his other disgraceful hidden arts. So, fuck him. I've found a new Van Gogh. One with eyes as blue as the ocean and a heart to match its size. I can only pray that this creator chooses to brush away my imperfections. To make new what was once without direction and without purpose. This! This is only fair.

Until my very last breath, I will fight to correct this erroneous mistake.

Until my very last breath, I will fight to have Parker know that he's fucking everything to me.