One Word | H.S.

Chapter Fifty-Two

This will be the chapter I hold closest to my heart.

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Red's POV | Present Day

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Hate.

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All sexual innuendos aside, we're fucked.

Perhaps Pretty Boy and I should've saved our rabid purple making for another day, maybe Wednesday. I wasn't even planning on dabbling around with his pollywog until the first strike of noon, was waiting for a scrumptious BLT before, but my vagina was screaming in agony.

I was horny, but confused. Perfect match.

Now I have to worry about the possible pregnancy; the formation of an overly-eccentric, death-defying, utterly terrifying tadpole in my stupid stomach. Not only that, but my attention has been caught by the rabid gunshots that are coming from outside the club.

I thought Wonderland was supposed to be full of glimmering sparkles, alcoholic characters that were assigned the titles of bizarre, mad.

But no, of course not. It's a fucking shooting ground.

I'm completely naked, post-sucked-on nipples out for all of my best friends to see, the Smirnoff bottle in particular making me smile. "I'm hearing things, right?" I nervously question as I keep my gaze hooked on the door, the ceiling, the backroom. "Weird time for fireworks, no? People need to settle down, take an epsom-salt bath or something." It's word vomit, and I've never been wonderful at controlling myself, my words.

Harry looks like he's seen the ghost of his ridiculing future, staring them in the eyes as he must await treacherous fate. He didn't even look this frightened, this shocked, when he saw dead-alive boy for the first time, sheer terror.

"Harry," I search his face for any peaceful emotion, knowledgeable expression that will ease my rising heart rate. "Who called you?" His eyes are fixated on the phone, the device shaking tremendously as his lips hover like a landing aircraft, fluctuating constantly.

If I were to actually address information that was presented to me, stay hooked on things that probably should catch my attention, I would assume whoever was on the other line got shot.

But, I'm not.

So, I'm currently assuming that it was just a warning-call, a wavering red-flag that was flung throughout static conversation. Muffled from the lips of the tragedy beholder, there's no way in fucking hell someone died, or is tip-toeing on the brink of death.

Simply put, I won't accept it.

My thinking is so selective, I didn't even catch the moment Harry had already put on his pants. The shirt is still missing, probably thrown off in the middle of our Adam and Eve friendly, innocent conversation, but he's now semi-clothed.

Pity, I wanted to engage in this entire extravaganza whilst in the nude.

"Harry—," I try to lure his attention for only a moment, snap him out of the hurricane that is pouring within his already drowned mind. By the looks of it, he'll spiral into an unforgivable attack as I won't be able to ease him like I could now, keep him grounded for the time being.