Captive (Sequel to Infatuation)

Chapter 13

SONG(s) FOR CHAPTER: 

♬ Let It Hurt by Rascal Flatts ♬ 

♬ Battleships by Daughtry ♬  

CHAPTER 13

♕ HARRY STYLES ♕

WITH A LUMP in my throat, I could only stare at her. Her words seemed clear when they fled her lips but blurred and jumbled when they entered my ears.

Doctor Miles had said records and prescriptions for people like me were confidential. That only he and my parents—or in my case, legal guardian—were allowed to see them. Had he lied about that? When he came to my hospital room the first time he brought it up, he said he had a trustworthy friend do the snooping and—oh God.

My eyes locked on hers again, and it became all too much overwhelming. If Grace had been that trustworthy friend, what other terrible things did she know about me? Had she done extreme snooping or had she only skimmed the surface?

What a huge embarrassment. All of it. Every time I tried to leave that horrid stuff behind, somehow it found me. But now Grace had found it and that was even worse. She must think I'm a basket case, an absolute lunatic.

I realized my hands were trembling when I dropped my smoothie, the contents spilling all over the table top. My mind was racing and I was doing that weird thing where I blinked rapidly, as if it would help push everything away. I needed air, but I was already outside.

Grace was trying to use the few napkins we had to clean up my smoothie while I dragged my hands furiously through my hair, darting to my feet. The movement was so abrupt, my chair fell backwards, catching other people's attention.

God, I was suffocating.

I hadn't had an episode like this in a long while, where everything rushed back to me so quickly. I tried to detach myself from the past the best I could, but it hovered over me like a large storm cloud, drowning me every chance it got. It was hard to block out the screaming and the cries and the gunshots when you were the only one that could hear them.

A migraine was coming on, and it was hitting me fast, just like everything else. I hadn't noticed I'd walked two blocks from the cafe already until I stepped off the sidewalk to lean against a tree.

Plates breaking.

Mom crying.

Dad screaming.

The two sickening gunshots.

All of it was like a broken record—excruciatingly endless.

There was a small hand on my shoulder, no doubt Grace's. My forehead was pressing against the tree hard enough for the bark to draw a little blood. I hadn't realized it was because I was dragging my head back and forth across it, as if trying to scrape away the memories.

Of all times, the attack had to happen now. When things with Grace were going good. When things were starting to get back on track. Of course I had to crumble. Of course I had to ruin everything, just like I always did.

Hot tears were rolling down my cheeks when I felt Grace move closer to me. I hated crying. I hated having an episode. I hated feeling and looking so weak and vulnerable. Like I was something fragile. I refused to be something fragile.

"Harry, oh my God, what do I need to do?" She sounded so panicked, so worried. She was trying to move me away from the tree, no doubt so I would stop scratching my forehead from the bark.

"Make it stop," I mumbled, but my voice was strained and hoarse. "Please."

"I'm taking you to my apartment. God, I need to call a taxi..." She kept rambling.