When The Sun Sets

13: Now I Long for Yesterday

Part Two | Chapter Thirteen: Now I Long for Yesterday

Newport, Rhode Island

July 1919

    We switch trains once. It's nighttime when we arrive at our hotel. It's a smaller place than before, but compared to Aunt Geraldine's estate, anything would be considered small.

    Harry doesn't like my idea to create a wall between us, which is smarter on his part because the size of the bed is concerning. I can barely fit on it myself, let alone two people.

    The best thing about the room is that we have a balcony. It leads us to a view of the street, empty and quiet at a time like this. The scent of fresh rain is relaxing and sleep inducing.

    Because it's so late, there's nothing for me to do but fall onto the bed while Harry makes his bed on the floor, quietly making sure all the corners of the sheets are even and then he's not going to be rolling under the bed during the night.

    I'm happy with the conversations we've had on the train. Harry lays down on the floor and glances at me.

    "Goodnight," he says.

    "Goodnight," I reply. "Thank you for talking to me today."

    "I don't think I should be thanked for that."

    "Still."

The silence is enough to put me to sleep, tired limbs and eyelids both failing and giving into the fatigue of the journey. The mattress is quite comfortable, though I'm unsure if it's because of my sleepy state or the quality of the hotel. Regardless, I find the darkness welcoming me easily.

I'm half asleep when a loud noise forces me back to my conscious state. I jolt awake, jerking into an upright position, whipping my head around to see what caused the noise. It comes again, a strained, choked sound from my right and I peer over the side of the bed, wondering if Harry's heard the noise as well. It takes me a second to realize that the noise is coming from him.

Harry's sitting up, his knees pressed towards his chest, body trembling. His arms are tightly wound around himself, face hidden beneath his hair, tucked into his knees. Despite the lack of light, I can make out that his nails press tightly into his palms.

Quickly, I get up and lower myself to the floor.

"Hey," I whisper, crawling slowly towards him. I raise a hand and hover it over his curly head. "Hey, what is it?" I land my hand on his head, scratching his scalp to physically show my presence. The sobs are loud and filled with anguish, his body jerking with every desperate cry, folding into himself as I continue to pet him.

"Harry." I'm gently holding his head, trying to push it up. "It's alright. It was just a dream." That is my assumption and it renders me completely helpless as I'm not in his mind or in control of it.

He shudders through another cry and pushes back against me. Through delayed realization, it hits me that he doesn't mean to push away, but bury my hand further into his hair. I rise to my knees and slowly push the curls off his face. My heart's thundering in my chest, fingers shaky. Not once does he stop crying.

The matters worsen when he clenches in self defense and lets out a noise aside from a sob. It's more vocal, more like a desperate cry like a wounded animal.

"It's hurting."

"Harry. What's hurting? Look at me," I demand urgently, giving up with picking his head up, now forcing his knees down.

I loop my arms around his calves and pull them, fighting against the hold of his locked elbows. I tug relentlessly and finally drag them down when his weak muscles give out. Before he can draw himself into a ball again, I place a knee on either side of his hips and climb the rest of his thighs, sitting myself on his stomach. He covers his face with his hands, holding the strands of his hair that have fallen onto his forehead once more.