Eccentric [h.s] *ON HOLD*

fifteen.

"I always find beauty in things that are odd and imperfect- they are much more interesting."- Mark Jacobs.

-

"I never knew that seeing you at night would be so difficult." I say as we walk through the dark, quiet halls. We keep our voices low so that we wouldn't get caught. My mind is still circling around Harry. He has versions to him which I admire in a sense, but they could change in an instant. I constantly try not to get attached to just one.

Harry shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his jumpsuit pockets. "That's the thing about living in an asylum...it's not like home. Even when you have a nightmare, no one's there to comfort you."

I suck in a subtle breath, letting it go.

Harry's tired eyes soften lightly as he looks over at me. "Are you okay, Gracie?"

"Yeah."

The thing is, Harry's words take me back to my childhood. The nights where I'd wake up from a nightmare in the darkness of the attic. The only source of light was from the single lightbulb hanging from the wooden rodded ceiling.

My nightmares back then were almost alway the same- it was strange, looking back. Either I was running off the edge of a cliff, engulfed by the darkness where voices would taunt me, abandoned forever, or not being able to reach my mother in heaven. I was never comforted.

The last one scared me a lot. It started when I was about six or seven. I lived with the thought that my mum was somewhere out there, watching and smiling at me the way angels would. With every move I made, I felt like it was something she wanted me to do. I felt her there.

I was fairly pleasant natured as a child until I reached the age where I began to realize she wasn't there and the only way to really get to her was through death.

And so it all began from there.

"Come on." I am broken from my distance with reality by seeing Harry hold out a hand in front of me, a few inches below. I realize that he is at the first few steps of a staircase, and as I look over his broad shoulder, all I see is darkness. A whimper leaves my mouth without my consent and I begin to feel woozy. My hands tremble as I hold myself.

I was always afraid of the dark, nyctophobia, some may call it. It's not just about the dark itself- it's about the horrible things that lure in it. They use the pitch black in our eyes as an advantage to deceive us.

Harry sees the look in my eyes and holds his hand out further. "Don't let it scare you...the darkness is your only friend."

I breathe out, my heart still racing, and take his hand. He laces our fingers together and kisses the side of my head before we walk down the steps. I feel like I'm going to stop breathing right there because of fear, so when we reach the bottom step, I bury my face in Harry's chest. I don't even notice the tears streaming down my face.

"Shhhh baby, it's going to be okay." He cooes, stroking my hair. I feel embarrassed that I made myself look weak in front of Harry. Never have I felt this cowardly. I always wanted to be strong. Distant. Untouchable. Why did I let him break that barrier?

"Where are we going?" I ask him, my voice strained as I clutch onto the fabric of his jumpsuit.

"The basement." Harry tells me, unlocking the door with the key he pulls out of his sleeve. A little part of me is afraid of what I'm about to see but all in all I am anxious. When Harry swings the door open, I feel my heartbeat halt. The room is pitch black but the coldness radiates from it and hits me in an instant.

The slyness of the darkness creeps up onto my skin and I shiver under it as I screw my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Though my feet are glued in place, I feel myself being picked up and my head lays against Harry's chest perfectly.

"There, now you won't need to be scared. I know how hard is to be afraid...but just remember one thing: You control your fear, don't let it control you." His hot breath fans against my temples as I feel him readjust his grip under my knees. One of Harry's hands leaves my body as I hear quick, stretchy sound.

"Open your eyes, love." Harry says softly and I comply, but very slowly as my eyelids open. The first thing I see is Harry's face above me- curls loosely falling over his forehead, dimples indented in his cheeks, and eyes fixated on mine. Damn, he looks hot from this angle, I think to myself, but clear the thoughts away as I feel the red powdered on my cheeks.

Secondarily, I realize that there is a weak, flickering lighting source. It is powered by a lightbulb with a piece of string hanging from it. Harry puts me down so that I am standing on my own and I scan the room, an eerie feeling resting in my chest. The wooden chairs with broken legs on the ground look as if they have been tossed and the out-of-shape tables are covered in mystery stains.

I snap my head over my shoulder when I feel a large hand on it. Of course it's Harry, but the intensity of the situation has got me paranoid. "Don't worry, this is just where the bad equipment go and also where the food storage room is." He assures me, and I nod hesitantly.

Harry leads me into a corner and sits down on the cold, concrete ground and pulls his knees to his chest. He pats the space next to him and so I take a seat in the awfully uncomfortable area. We are jammed between two old, broken dressers. "This is probably the only place we'll be safe." Harry says, glancing up from his fidgety fingers to give me a smile.

I exhale quite loudly. "It's a little creepy if you ask me."

"So...you said you had a bad dream?" Harry reminds me, looking at me with soft concern. My mouth goes dry immediately. "What was it about? I promise you can tell me, Gracie."

I blink a few times, my mind shifting back and forth from the dream and reality. Unable to find the right words, what simply comes out of my mouth is, "The Torture Room."

"You mean the room at the end of the main corridor?" Harry straightens his posture suddenly and looks at me with creased eyebrows.

"Yeah, that one exactly."

"What about it?" Harry asks so casually, it actually shocks me.

Millions of questions race through my head at the same time. Has Harry been taken to the room before? Does he really care that people are getting tortured when it's really their conditions that are to blame, and not them? Is the Torture Room a normal thing to him?

"Well..." I trail off, extremely nervous, "Hasn't it ever crossed your mind how maybe someone could have gotten torture to their death?"

One of Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "What are you getting at?"

I look over at him and shoot him a look, a bit annoyed, to be honest. "Haven't you put the pieces together yet?!"

Harry's expression changes and he scowls. "There are no pieces to put together, you're just overthinking this, get some sleep and everything will be fine." He begins to get up but I pull him back down.

"No. You listen to me. I'm sick and tired of people telling me it'll all get better through sleep." I tell him firmly, "Cecilia's missing, we overheard the warden and the doctor talking, and now I just found out about the Torture Room."

"So?" Harry asks obliviously. I pinch the bridge of my nose and breath deeply. He's such an idiot.

I speak in a low tone, trying not to make it known that we're hear even though I want to scream right now.

"Hasn't it ever crossed your mind that maybe, just maybe, Cecelia was tortured and was the patient that they buried?"

[OH SHAT THINGS JUST GOT A LITTLE MORE INTENSE OOPS...AND WHO SHIPS #HARCIE??]