Safe Haven ↠ h.s

Chapter Forty Seven

I enter into the warm kitchen after slamming the door shut, leaving Harry outside. My body shakes slightly with anger and frustration.

How can he even suggest I'm hallucinating?

Fuck this, it's too damned hot in here.

I need some fucking drugs right now, and I don't even care what. Hell, with the anxiety pooling like a hurricane in my stomach, I might as well snort some Xanax and chill.

Harry stays outside as I grab my bag and slip on my shoes. With a grunt, I exit into the hallway and shut the door to his apartment behind me.

It takes me ten frustrating minutes to isolate myself from any fans. I'm both surprised and proud at myself for not exploding at any of them, especially with some of the nasty things that were yelled my way. Varying things we shouted, such as how I only use him for his money, or how I'm pregnant or something equally bizarre.

As if I could get pregnant when I can't even have sex. Harry can't even touch my boobs without me losing my mind.

God, Harry's right. I have such bad mental issues; I'm a lost cause. I don't know why I even try with him anymore. I don't deserve him. He deserves way better than me, someone who he can touch and feel and love physically without fearing they will freak out when he touches the wrong place the wrong way.

Maybe Harry and I shouldn't be together.

Stop it. You're just angry at him for saying you hallucinated.

How could he even say that to me! He knows how much I struggle with my mind, how could he even suggest that there's even more wrong with me?

I already know I'm massively fucked up.

I drop my bag to the floor of my apartment, locking the door before sludging over the dried blood embedded in my rug. Immediately, I head for my bedroom.

Shit, I better clean before I get mucked and can't walk anymore.

Grabbing the broom from the closet, I spend a good fifteen minutes making sure that no glass is left in the carpet. My vacuum makes the weirdest noises but does an effective job at removing all foreign objects, with the exception of the yellow daffodil pollen. I give up there. I can do that another night.

Pulling out the bottle of Xanax from my bedside table, I grab one of my razor blades and my wallet and make my way to my couch. I place each of the items on the glass table and pull out a twenty-dollar bill.

I empty six of the pills onto the table and screw the lid shut. Flipping the bottle over, I crush the pills beneath the lid into a fine white powder and cut up any leftover chunks with the razor blade. The blade, which dances between my index finger and thumb, cuts the decent-sized pile of powder into five thick lines.

With a smile, I turn on some ScHoolboy Q and grab the bill. I roll it up tightly and carefully slide it up my nostril until I flinch and feel it cut the flesh.

Lowering my face to the table, I align the bill with the line closest to the door. I press against my other nostril and inhale slowly, the white powder soon slowly disappearing through the green bill. I instantly feel the burning at the back of the membrane and tilt my head back, placing the bill down and massaging the right side of my nose to make sure all of it absorbs properly. I close my eyes and enjoy the burn as the first sense of calmness overcomes me.