Magnolia in May [H.S]

Part forty-three

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Harry

-- -

       My feet bounce as the rain crashes outside, the phone booth shielding me from the treachery of the weather. I wait on the landline, zoning in and out at the drops of water sliding down the glass. I push my hair back, sighing with annoyance. How long is this gonna take? I hoped it would be fast considering I had plans and a game later today. But the line was still on hold, only the feedback and pitter-patter to distract my mind. The tapping of my shoes in tune with the rhythmic drums water-falling.

I watch the swaying trees instead, my car humming from outside the see-through box. It poured with anguish, the wind tossing it around the sky. A waltzing of mother nature, hand-delivered from the clouds. As consuming as the eyes of a desired one. A looking glass into the tranquil chaos occurring, like some sick metaphor. I was in the booth with Meg, and beyond the glass door is everything I'm keeping from her. Observing from inside injected guilt right into my bloodstream. Every second counts.

Finally, the reckon happens, the phone dings uncontrollably. Spooking me out of my wallowing. I pick up the ringing line, hesitantly putting it to my ear. A breath of entwined writhe fuels through my cold nostrils. I needed to keep my temper, that was the only thing that could get me through this.

"You are receiving a call from Oregon state penitentiary." The automated voice plays through the speaker. I roll on my heels, nervously slicking my damp hair out of my face.

This was seriously painstaking, the well of nerves, the wait time that was just an added dose of worry.

"Harry?" The voice is deep, raspy just like mine. Except it lacks my accent, almost chilling in a way. Like me from an alternate reality where I didn't grow up with a British influence. But in the same frequency, it was like music to my forlorn ears. I had missed this voice, even if I would never admit it to myself.

"Dad,"

-- -

I saunter to the glow of the bar, a red sign flashing into my strained eyes. The surrounding is obnoxious, loud and put my sensory overload on a thousand percent. My boots tap the concrete road, then pavement as I make my way closer to the bar itself. I could already feel the nerves boiling inside of me, this was going against everything my mum ever told me. But I had to know.

Drunken adults chatter radiantly, in their own little bubbles of intoxication. This setting was somewhat odd to me, a reckless rebellion of angst. Though it was almost as if I felt at home like I was meant for a place like this.

As soon as I push through the doors I'm hit with a suffocating smell of liquor, blaring rock music. Heads turn, but not enough to create a scene, I may have looked young but I also looked like someone who'd come here regularly. They didn't even ID me either, the security guard acted as though he knew me personally. I gallivant my way through the crowd of people, directing toward the glowing bar. Eventually, I made it through the variety of individuals, taking my place at one of the empty stools. The bartender slugs over to me, a burly heavily tattooed guy with so many piercings he probably couldn't pass through airport security without a hassle.

I try and choke down my utter intimidation from the setting, putting on my sultry monotone face.

The bartender pierces his eyes at me, turning his head - as to point out the fact I didn't belong here. I mean obviously, I'm a sixteen-year-old kid, one that looked lost and grounded at the same time.