Cult

14: Cult Ω

"Kill me," I say. My voice is weak, needy, desperate.

Harry swallows hard as though he just consumed poison. He cups my face in his hands. I shut my eyes. 

"No," he breathes.

I open my eyes, confused.

Harry takes my glasses and lowers them for a moment. "When the moon light shines against your face, your eyes look blue," he tells me. "But in the sunlight, your eyes are vibrant green, contrasting your wild red red," he says in a whisper. I stare at him, unsure what to say. 

Harry reaches for his mask and unties it, placing it in my palm.

"I am exactly who you think I am," he tells me. That's not usually how that sort of sentence starts, but I know what he is implying.

I nod. Harry takes a deep breath as though he is nervous. Hasn't he taken numerous lives already? Why is he so nervous now?

"Please don't turn into some cheesy mystical creature with fangs or a mane of fur," I ask of him almost teasingly. He smirks. Why am I joking around? I am about to die.

Harry lets his long fingers trace my cheek and grin line. "I've never seen you smile," he says. His eyes hold a sliver of moonlight, twinkling slightly. 

I stop smiling, just to annoy him.  

Harry takes my hands in his and lifts them to his cheek, making me cup his strong jaw. I look into his eyes, unsure what he is doing. I like the feel of his jaw under my small hands. I want to touch along his cheekbone and his dark lashes that frame his beautiful, pale green eyes. I want to press my mouth to his dark lips...

I take a deep breath. What the hell am I thinking?

Harry drags his tongue over his lower lip, moistening it. He pulls something out of his back pocket. A knife. 

"Jesus," I gasp. This is really happening.

"No, no, it's ok," he reassures me, urging me to relax. I pull away. Even though I want to die, I can't control my natural instinct to pull away from danger. But if that instinct was working properly, I would have told the police about Harry the moment I recognized him. I should have told everyone, regardless of how many of them—  including Zayn— would laugh at me.

Harry takes the blade and cuts his palm. I stare at him as he squeezes his hand and droplets of his blood soak his mask in my palm.

He closes his large, warm hands over my palm and presses his lips to my now slightly bloodied palm. The blood darkens his already rouge lips.

Carefully, he lowers his mouth to my neck and kisses me softly, sweetly. I place my hand over the red mark his lips left on my neck.

"Bloody Harry," I say aloud. Harry nods. I knew it all along, since the moment I saw him in that alley way, since the second the smoke clouds drifted away from his face outside my dace class, since the moment my father offered my hand to him, for the spotlight dance. I knew deep in my gut, but for some strange reason, I couldn't accept it until a few hours ago. I was in denial. 

Harry bows. Then he climbs down the balcony and runs off into the streets.

What?

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I want him to come back and take my life. I don't want to be dramatic, but I honestly can't live with my parents any more. I don't want to be associated with them. I don't want to live a prudish, boring, bleak life anymore. I'd rather die young than fade off in misery.

Quickly, I try to climb down the balcony, but my dress catches on a sharp gate and the satiny blue material tears. I reach the bottom somehow seeing as it wasn't more than a fifty foot drop. I try to follow Harry, but it's too dark. I hear a voice near the parking lot.