One Word | H.S.

Chapter Thirty-Two

We can't have nice things simply because, well, I don't LIKE nice things.

~

Spice.

~

I'm back at Sugar's. But this time, I'm prepared to die.

Even wrote out a eulogy before I left my house, expressing utmost gratitude to my dearest Thor, Auggie, and She-Hulk.

You also included Pretty Boy, in very small print, however. But again, this all seems to slip your mind.

Truthfully, I was going to quit after the life-threatening incident that occurred two weeks ago, but I was offered a three-dollar raise.

For the month, that is.

Of course, I told Mia that I was going back to work. Though she isn't truly aware of what happened that dreadful evening, Cade and I failing to mention such an intense event.

Should've told Thor and Loki. Will bite you in the ass.

Being back in hell, walking through the repulsive doors, I've attempted to make sense of that night. Truthfully, yet my mind has completely fallen blank, lacking of any understanding.

They probably just had a bad evening, those men. Perhaps, they got into a vicious argument with their exhausted spouses, the conversation getting a little too heated.

Either that, or Sugar's is the opposite of what it presents itself as.

'The Mad Hatter's eyes go wide, his hat nearly flying from his head as Alice begins to uncover different clues. "She's beginning to see clearly." The Cheshire Cat pounces onto the nearest branch, the pair of them recognizing such a ticking, time-bomb, "Looking through such a glass, she'll flee rather soon."'

I'm going with option number one, dilly-dallying in denial a little longer. Acceptance has never been a strong suit, hence my avoidance of Harry the past week.

Well, neither of us have made an effort, really can't. It's not like we have the other's phone number, our only meetings being set by strictly chance.

The past few weeks, or assortment of various exchanges, have been replaying in my mind like a damn picture book. Each individual photo laced with a different shade of purple, the wild change in hues representing each dire emotion felt.

God, he's constantly on my fucking mind.

Plastered like cement, not even the greatest of sledge hammers could maneuver their way in, the entire concept of Pretty Boy locking deeply into my brain.

I hate this. I'm running away.

My nimble hands stay glued to the infamous bourbon, pouring various glasses for the similar, dreadful Donald Trump teases.

Ryder stands to the right of me, plastering his toothy smile as I can hardly crack a simple smirk, my hatred for these people growing rapidly.

Bourbon, the rabid drink of infidelity.

Swiping the sweat from my forehead, I shift onto my arm, "Did I tell you that I almost died two weeks ago?" I peer to Ryder, a slight shake of the head coming as a result of my question, "Like, forty fuckin' times." He hands the drink to the customer, my finger slyly flipping him off as a result of his words.