Background Noise [HS]

SIXTEEN

The phone call from the night before lasted nearly an hour. Harry spent the duration of it lied back on his pillows, duvet bundled at his waist. Violet, turned on her side, phone resting just beside her head with him on speaker. She spent most midnights all alone while he entertained the body of another to accompany him. The two were different entireties entirely, though a soul existed on the end of the line they anchored themselves to. There was something better, about that: spending the lonely hours with someone just as alone, just as saddened by something as you were.

Violet adored his voice, singing or not. All rasp and stricken with gravelly emotion, it was hard not to fall enamored by it. And here he was practically serenading her to sleep. She remained quiet throughout, instantly lulled by the lullaby he took to humming for her.

Tranquility was contagious, that night.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he slept so well. The morning hours stretched all the way till noon, and without interruption. There was no tossing and turning, only the clutching of pillow to chest as a substitute for what he wished to be there: someone he could love, something that would love him in return. Violet held prospect, for however premature and undeveloped their feelings were, the two of them cared for one another to an extent. It was undeniable. That care could grow into something more, if only they would nurture the relationship forming between them.

Roots could take hold in the winter—flowers could bloom in the spring.

It was not until he woke that his hold on the pillow loosened. Met with the wall adjacent to his bed, Harry rolled onto his back, ultimately taking the plush excuse of a body with him. The specks decorating his ceiling were but a blur before his eyes not yet clear of the haze that came with waking. He stared at the dots, tried to make sense of their messy disarray, of the feminine, sweet scent emanating from the pillow he clung so tightly to. Pressed to his chest beneath the firm crossing of arms, perhaps this would not be the best way to hold something resembling a lover.

Deeply inhaling the aroma that lingered, the very one that soothed him throughout the entire night, Harry wished that this could be his bad habit. Not alcohol or cigarettes—just a person that he could grow attached to, someone he could lose himself in. He wanted a love that ran deep, one that would root itself down in his lungs and take home in his heart. A suffocating, crippling kind of love that held the power to heal and destroy him all at once.

When he was so weak, it was hard not to crave something so strong.

The bed croaked as he left it. And there was still the usual cracking of bones as he went, though he felt lighter. Upon flicking on the bathroom light, Harry took in his appearance. Faint, crimson veins still clawed at his eyes like tree branches and booze had yet to leave his breath, but the purple hues tainting the bags under his eyes had lessened some. This was promising, so much so that he stared at himself for a long time. The man looking back at him was not as repulsive, not as seemingly pathetic as he was just the day before for behind the dark mask, there was an ounce of hope.

Sometime that morning, when the sun broke the barrier between sea and sky, Violet ventured outside to watch it rise. Father away at work, there was nothing to be avoided in getting dressed for the chilly weather and setting up camp in their backyard. Perched comfortably in a lawn chair, she watched the colors burst along the horizon. The vast star, bright and orange and blinding, brought some warmth to the cool side of the world taking its turn in suffering from winter.

She sat, toying with her fingers.

Soon, the birds were chirping and there was nothing more to see. Violet returned back inside, for once in her life grateful that work occupied most of her father's time. The hours void of his looming, painful presence were spent curled up on her living room sofa, fuzzy socks on her feet and favorite shows playing on the television. There was laughter at the funny parts, longing at the sweet, romantic ones. A part of her yearned for the connections being acted out, however fake, for she had not one, real or imaginary.