XXIII

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Harry's P.O.V.

Phone buzzing brings be out of the shitty sleep and dream I had.

I groan and reach out with my hand, feeling for the fucking phone but instead touching something wet, cold and sticky.

Fuck me, that's vomit.

I pull back my fucking hand and groan. Fucking disgusting.

Standing up, I run to the bathroom to empty out the rest of my stomach into the shitty toilet in this cheap hotel room. While vomiting my ass off because of all the alcohol consumed yesterday, pieces of her come back to me, like they always fucking do.

They can't fucking leave me alone, no, instead they torture me like I could never be physically tortured. They burn like melted iron inside my chest, whispering her name all over again.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the way I always find myself heartbroken and confused after her. This time, I know I really, really, screwed the fuck up and ruined my life.

She made the right choice, I know, it just hurts so fucking bad. It hurts so bad that all those fucking fairytales we read when we were children, all those movies and happy ever afters never come true.

They never do, and the people, the writers who sell us that bullshit, they are the real criminals, they are the real villans. They kill each and every soul on this planet by lying to us after making us hope, hope like fucking idiots that one day, all will be perfect and there won't be a single thing wrong with our lives.

I wipe my mouth and flush the toilet, and rinse my mouth with water in the wash basin. Groaning at the sight of vomit in the living room, I reach for my phone next to it to check what the buzzing was about.

New message (1) from Her <3

I hastly click on the notification.

I'm okay.

I sigh in relief and sit down on the couch, leaning my head on my palm. Thank god.

Should I reply? Or should I just leave it? I don't want to be the idiot constantly running back but I would do anything for a few more words from her.

Screw it.

Why did you leave me without a goodbye? I quickly type and send to her.

Putting the phone down on the couch next to me, I wait for a couple of seconds for her reply, and excitement rushes over me when my phone buzzes.

I didn't want to say goodbye to you. The message sends a pang of sadness through me and I take a deep breath, making up an answer.

Why not? You left me, it shouldn't have been too much of a problem to simply say goodbye.

I know I'm being rude but I can't help it.

This time, the reply takes a bit longer.

I think we should stop talking.

Huffing out an angry breath and on the verge of tears again, I type in Fine and throw the phone away from me, hoping it shatters into millions of fucked-up pieces like I am.

Though my wish doesn't completely come true, it does shatter, only not into a millions of pieces, but just enough that it won't ever work again.

Good, I think to myself and reach out for the half empty bottle of Whiskey next to me from last night, and press it against my lips. I need to feel the burn and to forget, forget my life and my problems and myself.

I'm about to tilt my head backwards and take that tempting sip, when something clears up to me.

"You've become an addict, Harry. The mayority of your problems are because of alcohol and they're growing bigger because you choose to ignore them and drink on. You not seeing the problem in alcohol is why you're addicted. Put the fucking bottle down and get your life back in order; you only have one to live and you've waisted a huge part of it to alcohol." a voice, maybe my subconciousnes dying, maybe my fucked-up inner self speaks out to me.

"I don't have her anymore. I don't want this life, anyway. It's too fucked up to be fixed." I say out loud, to noone in particular; I'm way out of my fucking mind to care about the fact that I'm talking to myself.

"Well, that fucking bottle isn't going to help you fix it and you've tried killing yourself before and you know how it ended. Don't be a fucking idiot and put down the bottle."

I huff out in annoyance and put the fucking bottle down, annoyed with myself and the whole world around me. Closing my eyes, I rest my head on my arms again, feeling like shit, probably because I am shit.

However, I can't deny that I'm an addict much longer when I constantly feel the need to taste the familiar burn down my throath. In anger, I swing the fucking bottle against the wall and stand up. I need to leave the fucking apartment. God knows I'll go insane if I stay here for even a second longer.

I open the door, still in last night's clothes because I don't give a fuck if I smell, and take a deep breath of the fresh air.

Fuck, I really needed this.

A part of me terribly wants me to return to the shitty room and drink on, but I know this is what's good for me.

I gotta move the fuck on.

So, I start walking down the lonely London street, this time with a goal.

A goal to find a gym to get out all the fucked up thoughts from my head, for the first time without drinking.

***

So much love to you guys! The story should get a little less depressing now, I hope.

Thanks again for those who stayed <3

Next chapter: tomorrow, same time

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