Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Eighteen

And so I stole moments with him whenever I could. Selfishly. I knew that every secret drive together, every midnight walk through the streets of Islington put us at risk of being caught.

But I was a girl starved of care and attention and I felt seen when we were together; having made myself invisible for so long I became addicted to the way Harry indulged his time on me.

Looking back, I can see now that my dependence on Harry for happiness wasn't at all healthy; but then non of my relationships were back then.

For a while, that dark hole had shrunk. When it felt like an end was in sight and I'd be free of Jason and my fake friends and my parents.

But then that night happened and everything after and I no longer had that Sun to warm me from the inside out.

Harry was no longer in my life and all I could see was a black expanse.

I spent years searching for a pinprick of light to pull me back out.

When the court case to charge Jason of my rape was thrown out, I felt it begin to swallow me whole. I wasn't sure there was ever a chance of me crawling my way back out, wasn't sure there was anything left in the world to search for.

Because it had all been so hard, this existing thing. I'd felt totally and utterly unloveable. Jason had never loved me, that was something that had always been entirely clear. My friends, who so quickly took his side, never loved me. My parents, who had turned their back on their only child, could never love me in the way I needed them to.

And then Harry. He'd said he loved me, that I was his best friend. Yet I'd ruined it all anyway. Then he was gone.

Surprisingly, my parents kicking me out of their house was my saving grace. It'd given me enough sense of freedom that suddenly I felt I could breath, and whilst darkness plagued me, always hiding behind some corner to knock the wind from my sails just as I gathered speed, at least I could pick myself up on my own terms.

I'd fallen in and out of depression over the years, my unhealthy courtship with alcohol a testament to that. On the Tuesday after Kyle had forced his lips on me and threatened Harry, I'd plunged back in, head first.

I'd slept until well after lunch, a tight ache of hunger forcing me, sluggish and greasy from spending so long hidden in the depths of my duvet, to the Kitchen. I stared at a bag of bread, the idea of popping a slice into the toaster or spreading a layer of butter on top seeming just too much effort, so I'd slammed the cupboard shut.

I'd shuffled about the kitchen for a moment, willing away flashes of Kyles face, cold and hard in my living room. I brushed my fingers over my cheeks where his smooth and manicured fingers had gripped tightly, rubbed my dry lips on the back of my sleeve to rid them of the feeling of his mouth on mine.

I was quick to reach for something to drink after that. A bottle of vodka, not bothering with a glass as I knew I'd keep it at my side until it was empty.

The first few sips always burned but the cloudier my brain would get, the further down I could quash the memories and fears that plagued me, the easier it was to sink the spirit back.

I started the bottle a little after 1pm, and by 2 I was drunk. My phone had been chiming since the early morning, messages from Kyle reminding me that I was "his", from Harry asking if everything was okay, Sarah inviting me for coffee, Lucy reminding me about the dinner I was supposed to be having with her and her mother this week.

In the end I turned my phone off altogether, wanting to shut the world out for a little longer.

I was all too aware that something would have to be done about Kyle at some point. I couldn't bare to see him again, a chill ran down my spine at the thought of him turning up here at any moment. So much so that I was filled with an itching paranoia that forced me to check and recheck that my front door was locked.