One Word | H.S.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The eye of the storm, depending on the beholder.

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Color.

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I'm running around the parking lot with Harry's keys.

The world is nothing but my oyster, the freedom of theft coursing through my already thin arteries. Wind coats my dry skin, the excess breeze whooshing around the dyed pubes on my head.

A poem, wondrous words only assisting my unspoken dreams of becoming Robert Frost.

Harry continues to chase me down, screaming profanities as I refuse to let him drive us to the bar. The immense amount of whiskey consumption seemed to slip my mind when we agreed to go to Milo's.

Not really sure how we're getting home, but I can only fight one battle at a time.

Give me a fucking break.

The gravel kicks under my tattered shoes, fits of giggles escaping my lips as I'm merely a jack rabbit. "Red!" Harry shouts, my finger flipping him off as I maneuver through the various vehicles, "You look like a fucking idiot!" I refuse to turn back, not allowing entry into his precious bitch of a car until I'm sat behind the wheel.

Oh, so you driving is any better?

Look, I passed my drivers test the fourth time and honestly, the results were outstanding. Receiving the high score of seventy-one, I'd never felt so accomplished.

Harry nearly catches me, his tall body struggling to fit between the small crevices as he proves to be a stumbling fuck, "Suck my dick!" I shout, an exaggerated 'what' coming from his lips as I run away like a child who just got out of a punishment.

A feeling of freedom, though remaining caged as the pair of us have been in the parking lot for over twenty minutes.

If I don't have toned thighs by the end of this intense chase, then I'm suing whoever invented running.

Pretty Boy?

My body fumbles to the ground, an apparent weight pinning me to the pavement as I squirm under the rabid beast, "Do you understand what being polite means?" I yell, shoving Harry from my body. "Means not becoming a fucking wrestler when someone accidentally takes your items." I rest my body on my forearms, Pretty Boy shooting up at my words.

I'm not sure when I was drafted into the NFL, but butter me up and call me Tono Romy.

No, this must be a joke.

We both lay on the pavement, our breathing shallow as Harry shakes his head, "You need to be locked up." He throws his hand up, his pointer finger waving in my direction as he stays flat, "Like, permanently. No bail, nothin'." He heaves, his words breathy as I wonder whether or not I should get him an inhaler.

He's fine.

I lie back down, ignoring his words as I shift my gaze to the sky. The stars are especially bright tonight, an eclipsing sense of serenity coating my eyes as the sparkling makes even the darkness appear enticing.

To be a star, a promising hope.

Though, the brightest of stars are often the ones that have exploded millions of years ago. A tragic story of an orb, their life only viewed enchanting once it has passed on.

A glimmering pledge shadowed by a fateful end.

"Red."

My heart stops, the nickname not failing to send me into a whirlpool of unidentified emotion, "Yeah?" We both sprawl on the ground, the scratchy pavement becoming our new home.