Tribulation [h.s]

08

"Good times and diamond rings
Red eyes and plastic kings
Am I alright? Am I alright?
Don't comfort me
I'm feeling fine; I'm feeling fine
In this brand new dream"

-

I'm dancing with Harry.

Ohmygod. What the actual fuck.

One of his large hands grips tightly at my waist while the other crushes one of my hands that he holds close to his heart. I try uprooting myself away from him, but he only pulls me closer by my hip.

His grip hurts.

He's touching me. He's touching my hand, my waist, my chest is pressed up against his.

Get off me. Get off me, get off me, getoffme, getoffme, getoffme-

Oh, God. I'm going to be sick.

The room starts spinning; my stomach starts churning, my palms start sweating, I'm shaking — horribly shaking.

I can't breathe. My throat closes up on me. I feel like I'm choking on water. I'm paralyzed, and my limbs refuse to move when I feel his warmth trickling into me.

I feel unclean and violated, and it throws me back into the deep end of those torturous memories always lingering in the back of my mind.

Touch is a trigger; that's why I hate it so much. Touch forces me to relive the night I spent hours washing blood off my red-stained hands because, even after the blood washed off and disappeared down the drain, I could still feel it on my body, crawling under my skin and seeping into my veins like a disease.

I was scrubbing away much more than just blood that night. I was scrubbing away the impurities, the scars, the darkness until I was bleeding yet again, hoping that would somehow fix my brokenness.

On the bad days, I still do it. I scrub and scrub until it hurts and my skin is raw, but it never works. It never fucking works.

"Not so brave now, are you, Rosaline?" He looks down at me, his face twisting with a sick type of amusement.

Is my struggling entertaining, dickhead?

I realize Harry is a lot scarier now that we're face to face. Messy deep brown curls tumble past his broad shoulders, a few unruly strands falling before his downward stare. Tattoos litter his chest and neck but disappear under his black button-up with three buttons undone at the top. His eyes, which I admire more often than I should, are dilated, redrimmed and bloodshot. On top of that, they seem almost unnaturally dull and bottomless.

They say eyes are the window to the soul, but...

I don't see any soul here.

All at once, my blood runs ice cold.

He's high, isn't he?

Fear is a close friend — a constant in my pathetic life but, there's something about those bloodshot eyes and those large hands squeezing me that has me reeling.

Something in me snaps.

I try telling myself that fear is only specific chemicals released to send my immune system into a panic, but it's so much more than just that. This is more than just science.

Fear is a constant hammer on the head and heart.

Fear a fire tearing apart a home with the family stuck inside.

Fear is paranoia and lack of control.

Fear is shackles locked tight around my neck, hands, and wrist — I'm its prisoner.