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Eleven

Aubrey Hart

Harry is such an idiot.

I swear, he thinks I'm some stupid girl who isn't capable of getting him back for all of the shit he's said to me. He's wrong. The bipolar events of Tuesday night have shifted something in me. If we're going to do this until the movie release, he can't walk around thinking he's the boss of me. He can't just scare me into always listening to him. I need to show him that I'm not some whiny little bitch who's too sensitive for her own good.

Yes, those things are true when it comes to me a lot of the time, but that's just one part of me. He hasn't ever met the truly mad part. Nobody has besides my ex boyfriend from college, Ian, after he tried to run Elora and I off the road a little over a year ago.

Harry's on the verge of bringing it out of me, though. I can sense it. I'm so tired of the way he talks down to me. He's so hot and cold. One minute everything is borderline friendly, just us talking about life and joking around like normal people. Then, next thing I know, I'm being screamed at to the point of tears and throat pain over a minuscule problem.

So, I've decided I need something to hold over him. Something serious that'll stop him.

I shove the small camera I bought at the store today into my purse, ready to do what I need to do.

I have a pretty good plan. I'll put the camera in his car behind his rear view mirror, get him mad while we're out, and catch him doing coke on tape. The footage captured on this thing goes straight to an app on my phone, giving me easy access to it whenever I need it.

Harry isn't going to scare me anymore. Or at least that fear won't be one-sided. I've already given him a little too much information about myself that I'm sure he could spin around to make me look bad or embarrass me. That stops tonight. I need something to hold against him that'll make him a little more intimidated by me. Maybe then he'll watch what he says and control his unpredictable behavior a little more.

I get a text from him saying that he's outside, stopping my inner monologue. I put my purse on my arm and slip into my low top Doc Martens, them being paired with some baggy blue jeans and a blue and navy sweater vest with a white collared short sleeve under it. My hair has two tiny braids hanging down in the front while the rest of my brown hair is down.

I exit the house and see his car waiting for me. I reach into my purse, the tiny camera in my hand. I pull out my chapstick with it, and adjust the two things in my hands before I get in.

I sit down in the car and buckle my seatbelt, sitting my purse on my lap. I open up the strawberry scented chapstick and grab the rear view mirror, obnoxiously turning it so I can see myself in it. I turn it with the hand that has the camera in it, trying to position it where it needs to be without being obvious. I finally stick the camera to the back of the mirror and put on chapstick at the same time, letting go once it's situated and I'm done.

"What the fuck?" He gestures to the mirror, wondering why I moved it.

I drop my chapstick back into my purse and turn my head to look at him, "I needed to make sure I didn't get it all over my face." I shrug.

He adjusts it with a huff after rolling his eyes at me, then backs out without another word, simply turning up his music. He plays "Back Against the Wall" by Cage the Elephant.

The one thing I like about this guy is his music taste. If it wasn't for the narcissistic personality, inability to feel empathy, and mood swings, we would probably get along. There are moments where we get along already—as well as we can, at least—and without all of those things mentioned, I'm sure we would be on the brink of being friends by now.