Play Me Your Soul || H.S

1963, London
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"You can't go," again, he was giving orders, it seemed, it was the only thing he was ever capable of doing.

"You don't own me, Harry," for the first time in forever my voice didn't shake, "You are an arrogant, possessive, guarded and pig-headed aristocrat who can't face the fact that the world is not meant to be ruled by them," I was on the verge of tears, tears of mixed feelings and desperation, "Go back to Mary, go back to your freezing castle, and I'll go with someone who can actually smile and be kind, to laugh and feel."

"You can't go"

I threw my hand in the air, unable to find the words to send him straight back to hell.

"Why, Harold, Why?!? Why, when you kiss me and then go back to her? Why when I let you do it knowing I'll wake up alone?" My voice had shattered, and all left of my initial tsunami of rage, was the teardrop that rolled lonely down my cheek, "Give me one, just one, good reason not to go and I'll stay."

"I'll play you my soul."