Eccentric [h.s] *ON HOLD*

eight.

"I hate getting flashbacks of things I don't want to remember."
-

I find Harry in the the recreation room. It is the large room with shelves of old classic novels no one has ever heard of before. Unstable, rickety tables scatter the area, wooden board games stacked on top of them. What really catches my eye is the painting easel in the corner.

A woman sits behind it, painting a very intricate portrait of another inmate. The walls are literally covered in portraits of everyone, their expressions either depressed or grim. As I view each and every one of them, I come across Harry's- a deep, attractive smirk etched onto his lips. Every painting has a dark background, as if to represent the silhouette of their minds.

"Would you like one done of you?" A quiet, almost afraid voice breaks me from my trance, and I look over from the paintings to see the petite, frail-framed middle age woman holding her paintbrush as she stands. Her eyes are small and tired and sad.

"Um, it's fine, maybe later. Your work is really beautiful though." I say, and the woman's eyes start to glaze over as she cracks a small, quivering smile.

"This is the first time someone has ever said that to me, thank you." She says with a nod and returns to her unfinished portrait of the scruffy-bearded inmate sitting on the stool in front of her. I give her a smile before walking past a few teenage girls laughing and doing pirouettes, until I see Harry.

He is sitting at a table in the corner, all by himself. His face is buried in a copy of Wuthering Heights. I know he saw me, but pretends to be so intrigued by the novel and ignores the fact that I'm coming right up to him. When I stop right in front of him, I clear my throat.

"Emily Bronte sure is a genius. Do you like Wuthering Heights?" I try and strike up conversation the lamest way possible. I sound like a complete moron.

Harry just shrugs, not even peeling his eyes from the rather torn pages.

"My favourite character is Isabella." I tell him.

"She had it coming from Heathcliff. Catherine warned her." He replies, sounding a little annoyed as he runs a large hand through his hair. I am quick to notice the little cross inked on his hand, at the base of his thumb.

I find it strange how I am so intrigued by his hands alone that I can only imagine how intrigued I would be by his entire mind. Something about him pushes me to question everything, even the deepest of themes such as life and death. He is so mysterious and illusional in the most open way that you'd want to spend your entire life just trying to figure him out. How can someone's heart who beats so slow be this beautiful?

However, after Harry's remark, there is an awkward, still silence between us.

"Anyways, I brought you these." I place the paper plate of oatmeal cookies I made back at the collaborative baking session on the table. I guess I just feel bad for blowing Harry off earlier this morning, and for judging him based on his ward. Sister Theresa's words constantly replays in my head like a broken record. Leave behind the tragedy, the pity, the judgement and approach them with empathy.

Because yes, I understand how it feels to be perceived as someone you're not.

And yes, I can relate to being judged as deranged because we all are in the large scale.

The least I can do is is hold out a hand to take and empathize.

"Thanks." Harry says, after staring down at them for a few seconds. He puts his book down, slowly grabbing a cookie and eying me at the same time, as if what he's doing is illegal. The sound of his teeth sinking into the crisp baked good is heard as he takes a large bite. He closes his eyes, slightly tosses his head back and lets out a loud moan, his mouth full of cookie. "Thank god this is oatmeal and raisin, the chocolate chips here taste like shit."

I can't help but giggle, a rare sound coming from me.

"Want one?" Harry asks, and I politely shake my head. I licked way too much of the batter from the bowl that now even looking at the freshly made cookies makes my stomach turn. As Harry continues to scarf down the rest of the batch, I pick up the copy of Wuthering Heights and flip through it, smiling a little as I remember my own copy back at Uncle Richard and Aunt Charlotte's place.

"My mum used to make really good oatmeal raisin cookies." Harry says momentarily, almost as a whisper. When I look up at him, his eyes are glossy and dazed off as if he's trying to relive something. With a little, yet sad smile, he adds, "With just the right amount cinnamon."

"I'm sorry if I made you upset." I say, putting my hand on his comfortingly. His skin is cold, but somewhere beneath that, warmth is dying to get through. It's just unfortunate that he's from the past.

"It's not your fault, I'm happy, actually. It's just that your cookies remind me of hers." He smiles, blinking back the moisture in his eyes and savouring the last of his cookie.

"You mind if I ask you something?"

"Go right ahead, love." His dimples are visible now, and so it's harder to ask him a serious question. My heart beats rapidly as the question claws the back of my throat.

"How was your childhood like?" I ask him out of curiosity. I don't mean to pry into his personal life or anything, but I just can't help it. At first, I am afraid of his reaction because his eyes start to widen but then relief washes over me when I realize he's just dramatically exhaling.

"It was just my mum and I. My parents separated when I was about eight years old because my mum couldn't help but feel emotionally abused by my dad. He wasn't happy about the separation though, so he'd come to our house almost every other night drunk and feed my mum a bunch of bullshit about him sleeping around with other women. He'd even hit her." Harry says, "My mum would tell me to go to my room, but I'd secretly watch my drunk dad beat her up through the crack of the door. Once, my mum's cheek was bleeding and I left my room to defend her but I ended up getting shoved against the wall and slapped. It was truly awful."

I am surprised that Harry opens up to me in an instant, but I am also moved by his story. Even if I never really had parents, I don't think I would want their relationship to be like the one of Harry's parents. "Did your mum get help?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. She was talking to a therapist before I got arrested. She was kind of like a mum and dad all wrapped into one. I just wish I could see her and tell her I'm sorry." He says, sighing. "I miss her so bad."

Harry looks at me with those magnificent green eyes of his, and soon I begin to see the lost, confused boy behind them.