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

chapter 93 - (hen)rietta

When I first woke up, I thought the blasted sound of a rooster cockadoodling played out only in my head. Only when I hear it for the fourth time do I realize that the full sound is not in my head, but is instead coming from the backyard. I open my eyes, dried tears fresh on my face from last night. The Harry I know was not here last night. He smirked at bringing pain to me. Tears brim the corners of my eyes strongly. I fail to hold back the cascading fall after a couple of careful blinks. There's no point in me being upset with him, I think. He was just. . . expressing himself?

My lower half is still incredibly tender and with every small movement my body shocks with pain. Regardless, I continue grabbing onto the small bag of clothes before retreating to the shower. The small beads of heavy water almost hurt as the water pressure levels out. Immediately, I squeeze a small portion of strawberry shampoo into the palms of my hands before working a lather in my hair. I don't think I ever want to see the Harry that appeared last night again. He was so barbaric, expressing all of these carnal motivations. We're not animals and yet I can't help but feel like a piece of meat to him now. Sex should be more than just finishing the deed. Up until last night, every time we were together in that way, it was overwhelmingly pleasant. Even our more ravaging escapades carries a certain delicacy to them. But last night. Last night he actually hurt me. I'm no registered psyhciatrists or anything, but I'm sure now that his mood changes are anything but innocent. There's something strange happening in his head. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but I've seen it too many times in my own family. As I've said before, my family has a long history of mental illnesses - another thing to stir me into the career path of my mother's. I've always been fascinated with the dark places of the mind, but never once have I seen someone quite as disturbed as Harry. If it not for his tender compassion he's expressed several times throughout our relationship, I'd for sure believe he was on the psychopathic spectrum. Every mood swing, every rapid outburst speaks to some underlying cause in his head that I can't seem to figure out. All of this, his damage, is blatantly evident, yet I can't find it in my heart to quit him; I love him. This by no means is an excuse for how he acted last night. I- I just don't know how to approach the subject without hurting him further. This is truly fucked, isn't it? I'm treated against my will, and yet I'm considerate of his well-being.

The air in the hallway is surprisingly welcoming, not matching the heatedness of the bathroom, but not cold either. My hair is still dripping from the hot shower, and I feel bad for getting water all over the clean floors. Once I'm inside Harry's old room, he's returned not looking up from his phone. I don't bother speaking to him. He looks irritated with whatever it is he's staring at on the small screen. I hear him scoff loudly, as I step into his closet to change, but I don't care: it's principle.

"You really need to get over that. I like to admire what's mine, and I can't really do that if I can't see all of you," I hear him utter from the other side of the thin door, making me roll my eyes. I can never, and will never, get used to how territorial he is. I've really never met anyone like him. I dress comfortably sticking to one of his black shirts and a pair of sweats before stepping out into his room again. I haven't really taken the time to admire his childhood room, but it's honestly really everthing I imagined it to be. He was really active in sports in highschool; an army of trophies in baseball and wrestling grace one side of his room. I come across a picture of him on what looks like his first day of secondary school. His wide, metal-covered smile looks so innocent. It's hard not to feel for the damaged boy. His life before adolescence really wasn't that bad. It wasn't until his more formidable years that life took a drastic turn for the worse. I can't imagine living two different lives. It must have been a lot for his small mind to comprehend a different way of life; one where his parent's didn't get along.

When he comes back into view all of his attention is directed towards me. He subconsciously rolls his tongue across his lips lustfully, not staring at my face. I feel extremely uncomfortable with how he's looking at me. Normally, I'd be flattered with his boldness. It's rather strange, really. At the beginning of our now lengthy relationship, everything about him was without blemish to me. But recently, I can't help the rise of uneasiness that comes from when he's looking at me like this. His boldness shouldn't make me this anxious. It's one of the things I like most about him, but this is just uncomfortable. Images of him without control haunt my mind. There's really no way around his actions last night.

"Harry, I have to talk to you about something," I begin hesitantly.

"Last nig-,"

"Wakey. Wakey, sleepyheads. If I were you, I'd change into something a little more comfortable," Gem starts adressing the both of us, yet only staring at Harry as she looks over his state.

"We've got some chickens to chick!"

I flash her a confused expression before adverting it towards Harry. For a second, he doesn't respond only staring at the blond girl at the door. Then, rolling his eyes, he tosses his phone onto his bed waltzing over to me.