Start From Scratch (Sequel To Why Me???)

Not The Best Night

I keep sneaking subtle and quick glances into the lounge, as I go back and forth to set the dining table for dinner. Harry and Ninja seem to have warmed up with each other a little. A little, being the key word. Harry's index finger is stroking Ninja's shell tenderly, as if Ninja will break under the weight of Harry's finger. I want to tell Harry that Ninja cannot feel anything that happens on his shell. But I don't want to ruin their little bonding moment.
"Harry, dinner's served!" I yell from the kitchen. I can hear Harry's heavy boots thud against the wooden flooring, as he makes his way to the dining table. When I emerge from the kitchen, a bottle of win in my hand, Harry's seated and typing something on his phone. He hears me and looks up, placing the phone beside him.
"This looks great." Harry says, eyeing all of the dishes. I grin, and nod my head.
"Made them all myself," I state proudly. "Help yourself." I take a seat, and grab the prawn dish. Once Harry and I have taken whatever we want, we both dig in. The room's pretty silent for the better part of our meal.
"We'll need to talk eventually." I say, after the silence made me uncomfortable.
"Yeah, we will. Let's just not talk right now and spoil our evening," Harry says.
"Harry, not now, then when?"
"I don't know...years later." He shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
"Harry, be serious."
"Sorry." Harry murmurs, his mouth full of garlic bread. Guess who's not getting a kiss tonight? "You're right, Bella. Let's talk about...us." I place my elbows on the table and lean forward.
"Harry, we didn't properly talk things through last time," I begin. "After what you did - bringing in that girl - I couldn't talk to you."
"I know," Harry sighs. "I messed up big time. Bella, the thing is...when you yell at me, or get frustrated, I want to destroy everything. Including us. It's wrong of me to do so, but I want to. We're being honest here, and that's why I'm saying all of this. The feeling - the destructive feeling - that takes over me, scares the hell out of me. It's bad and unhealthy, for both of us. But I'm not brave enough and neither do I have the courage to stay away from you."
"Then don't," I whisper. I raise my eyes from the plates to Harry's face, and judging by his pained expression he's heard me.
"I don't want to, but what if I end up hurting you? At the mall...my hands were itching to hit you. You've no idea how I controlled myself." Harry's words take me by surprise. I didn't know he wanted to hit me. I feel anger, and pain surge through me. "That's why I don't know where we're headed." He waves his hand between our bodies.
"I didn't know that, Harry." I say, tossing around the food on the plate with a fork. "It...it's not the healthiest feeling. It's not a trait that I want the love of my life to possess."
"Nobody should have to go through abuse. I...I shouldn't have the power to put you through it, but I do and it scares me. It scares me a lot." Harry confesses. "If we're alone and you argue with me, or something, I could hit you."
"Can I tell you something, Harry?" I say, getting up and picking up my plate.
"Sure." Harry's chair scrapes across the linoleum flooring and I hear his boots close behind my heels.
"Once upon a time, when you kidnapped me, you used to hit me." I place the dishes in the sink, and turn on the faucet. "I hated you for doing that to me, for keeping me with you with force."
"I kidnapped you?!" Harry's voice is a few octaves too high. "I used to hit you?! Why didn't the boys do anything? Why didn't you hit me back?"
"Like you said, you have power over me, as much as I hate to admit it. Harry, you were the boss of this big gang, and you scared the hell out of me then. Not now." I head back to the dining room to get the remaining dishes. When I re-enter the kitchen, Harry's leaning against a counter, fiddling with his fingers.
"I-I'm sorry," Harry says. "I don't remember anything, but I sound like a horrid person. I'm sorry for all the pain that I put you through and I don't want to do it again." Harry's expression is pained, and suddenly I feel the need to comfort him.
"Harry...it isn't your fault," I say. "You don't even remember that person. How can I blame you for the things you did when you were a different person?" I place the dishes in the sink, and turn the faucet on again.
"But at that time I knew what I was doing." Harry throws his hands into the air, and slams them against his thighs. "I-I can't do this." He marches toward the kitchen door and exits. A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam shut, and my knees give way. Why do I feel like this is all my fault? How has Harry managed to make me feel like I'm at fault; like I'm the guilty party, instead of him? God, he frustrates me to no end! I yell out of frustration, anger, guilt and most of all...love for a stupid man, who doesn't realize just how much of my heart he owns.