Love, Rubi ❦ H.S.

- thirty one -

But despite my weariness, all of these pointless details about my life were helping me to avoid the elephant in the room. That gigantic, brooding, son-of-a-bitch elephant that made me want to scoop my eyeballs out with a fucking spoon.

I know it sounds morbid, but it's the God honest truth. Sure, I wasn't angry at the situation— shit happens. Of course it happens to me, but nevertheless, it happens.

I was, however, angry at the world's favorite rockstar. That lowlife, curly headed, coke addicted bastard.

I've been trying to ignore these feelings for the past two days, hoping that when I woke up I wouldn't be filled with so much rage— the kind of rage that was just begging me to smash out my windows with my fists.

But that moment of peace never came.

My eye had begun to twitch as I stared at my father's old record player— Fleetwood Mac's Rumors had been spinning for the past two hours, only stopping when I found the energy to get up and start it over again.

The rain pattering against my window pane was the only other sound present in my worn out brain.

It was me and this album against the world. Me and Flapjack against the world. Me and myself against the world.

Until there was a knock at my door.

"Go away!" I shout, assuming that this knock was produced by the only person on this earth that I'd rather die than see right now.

"Rubi, please. Let me in."

The thick, British accent chimes in tune with another bang at the door.

Fuckin' called it.

"No!" I shout once more, sinking into my blanket fortress. Maybe if I close my eyes and wish really hard, he'll leave me the fuck alone.

There's a brief moment of silence. The record had stopped spinning— leaving the raindrops and static to create ambient music above my pain and suffering.

"Rubi, open the door. Please. I need to talk to you."

I chuckle dryly, rolling my eyes. "Why should I, Harry? Why should I open the door? What are you gonna do now? Let me open the door so I can watch you face-fuck a different girl?"

"Rubi, stop. You're being ridiculous!"

"Doesn't seem so ridiculous after the other night, does it?!" I spit, bundling my blanket up to my chin.

Another hefty bang was laid on the door, followed by a few expletives from Harry who, I had assumed hurt his fist.

"Can we please just— talk about it?!"

"Eat shit and die, asshole."

An unprovoked pool of tears began to well up in my eyes as I watched the shadows of his shoes stay stagnant beneath the door.

I didn't want to cry— but for some strange reason, it was happening again. I could probably count on two hands the amount of times I've cried over the past 12 hours and yet, it seemed as though my emotions just couldn't get enough.