TW: sexual assault, trauma
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'Something's on my mind
Always in my headspace'
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Happiness is an inevitably fleeting moment. Like a bubble that rises ready to burst. When it does, the protection of it disappears and the danger of the outside elements return. They tell you not to strive for happiness because of this, rather to find comfort in peace. But peace is just as fragile. It can end as soon as it begins. Allowing humans to feel such joy and contentment when it can be taken away so soon is cruel, but it's life. It's unsettling. An illusion.
These positive feelings never last long. It's not possible. That's why it's so painful when reality crashes in and you're met with that same dread that you forgot for a while. Dread of the past, the present and the future. It controls you; it maims you. There's nothing you can do to stop it.
Just like fear.
The shadow of fear is dark. It completely envelopes you in your most vulnerable moments. It's toxic, poisonous. Once fear enters your blood stream there's only so long until it completely controls you and takes over your psyche. Some say it's a myth. I say it's the realest thing any of us on this god forsaken earth can feel.
At night is when I'm most scared. I lay tossing and turning in my sheets while I'm forced to face the things that frighten me most. Memories that I've tried to conceal, emotions I've ran from. The looming figure of pain and having to face it, knowing that you cannot erase what scares you. It is permanent.
My nightmares have been recurrent ever since it happened. Once my eyes close and my mind relaxes the demons enter and attack. Sometimes they don't materialise, but nine times out of ten I awake in a sweat, panicked by what I've endured. This is why I hate being alone in the nights. But at the same time, the prospect of someone seeing how weak I am only increases the anxieties I already hold. I don't want them to see just how utterly broken I am, despite the front I maintain. I make people believe that I'm ok, truly, that I'm perfectly fine. It's quite the opposite, though. Instead, I walk around with the knowledge of what happened and the fact that those I turned to chose to not believe me and insist that I was at fault. That ruins a person.
In these nightmares, it's all so vivid. Every single detail is there and feels like I'm back in the room. I'm reliving it again and again and again. The smells, the sounds, the sights. All of it is crystal clear. I can't shake just how real it is. Each evening, this is what I face. This is what I live through.
There are rough hands on me, forcing me down. They're so callous against my own soft skin, so dry and cracked. They scratch against me and make me scream out. The strength behind them is intense. I try to push them away but to no avail. With every push their grip tightens. Eventually one covers my mouth, my wet lips bringing moisture to the dry cells. I can feel them peeling. My lips are pushed against one with no way of subsiding the sickness that rises the longer it's there.
It hurts, the way he holds my body in place. I'm encased under him. No matter how hard I try to wriggle underneath, there's little chance of me escaping. It's uncomfortable having his full weight on me when I'm so much smaller. I was younger, too. Barely 17. Not that he noticed in the moment. The only thing he saw was a woman to use.
In his heavy breathing that invades my nostrils, I smell alcohol. A malty and dry scent. Beer. It seeps out of his pores and into my own the longer he keeps his hands on me. I try to hold my breath at times to stop the bile that threatens to come out of my mouth the longer I have to endure it. It's like I'm inside a brewery with how strong it is. But I'm not. I'm not surrounded by people that could prevent this. No, I'm alone and helpless. I worry the odour will never wash off of me.
There are tears soaking my cheeks. I've been sobbing the whole time, but with his hand over my mouth the sounds are muffled, replaced by his intoxicated commands. He tells me to stay still, that it will go by quicker if I do. I don't want to let it happen, but I have no choice anymore. The more I cry the worse it gets. He's so angry.
I'm terrified.
It's not like I'm watching it happen. I'm reliving it in its entirety. Remembering exactly how it felt and what he did. When he stopped, I stayed in my spot. Completely numb and frozen. He went upstairs and in the days that followed acted as if it never happened while I was left with the reminders of bruises. Scars on my brain that will never heal.
I'll always be this way. Damaged.
Suddenly, I awake. Darkness surrounds me. There's a light wind outside. For a moment I don't recognise my surroundings. When I feel someone's body next to me I scream, backing away out of the bed. I only have a t-shirt on, one I don't recognise. The person stirs under the covers, squinting their eyes to try and find the source of the racket.
My body is soaked, like I've been stood under the shower. But I'm freezing. I can't stop shivering. My skin is cold, lips are dry. God, I wish they didn't feel like that. The bed creaks as the person moves, they walk closer to me, but I still can't make out their face. A stranger, someone out to get me.
He places his hand on my shoulder, but I pull away. I'm backed into the corner, hiding from the perpetrator, trying to avoid whatever it is he'll do to me. Maybe he's the man from my nightmare. Maybe it's happening again. I could still be asleep. I pinch my skin a few times, and I feel it. I'm awake, this is real. It can't be real. He keeps his distance, but I still fear the proximity.
I don't have control over my legs when they bend and I slide down the wall. I lean my head against the cold surface, eyes closed while I try to steady my breathing. It doesn't work; I'm still gasping for air. In the light, I can make out more of his features. Brown, curly hair. Green eyes. Soft skin. It's soft, it's not him.
My eyes adjust onto him. I can tell that he's trying to talk to me, but I can't hear it, only the blood pumping in my ears. He looks so concerned. Almost as scared as I am. He feels familiar, but my mind is so fogged. I'm so confused, so lost. I just want to find peace. I want to feel comfort and safety.
He crouches down in front of me, but still keeps a decently sized space between us. His hands are in front of him to indicate that he's not trying to hurt me. I cling to the shirt on me to try and protect myself for longer. The longer he stares at me, though, the more I calm. He's not a threat, he's there to help.
The sounds in my ears dissipate. It's like I'm re-entering my body, but I'm still trembling. His voice picks up. It's still muffled but audible. 'Atlas, it's me, it's Harry. You're safe,' he insists, his tone reassuring but the look behind his eyes is fraught.
He repeats these words, again and again, reminding me of his presence. That familiarity builds. I look around the room, taking in my surroundings. Multiple photo frames sit around it, on the dresser and bed-side tables. Their faces linger in my brain, trying to grasp onto whatever memories I have of them. Harry. That name is so recognisable. Not just because it's a common one, but because I remember speaking it so often. It's left my mouth a lot recently, that much is clear.
I focus in on him, accepting his words until it all comes back to me, and I realise where I am. I'm safe, he's here to help me. He said he'd protect me. Always.
Harry.
My mouth opens to speak but no words escape. Only heavy breaths as more tears fall. He shuffles slightly closer, but I huddle even more, closing in on my already folded body. Though I feel secure around him, I still can't bear to have someone touch me. Not right now. Not when that man's hands are all I can feel. I don't want to muddle those memories with the ones we create now. But it's so difficult sometimes. Especially when I'm in these states of alarm and distress.
Harry accepts this, staying where he is. 'Should I call someone? Cathy?' he asks in a hushed voice, trying his best to calm me down.
I immediately shake my head. 'No, there's no one,' I respond, my throat dry and in desperate need of water. I search around the room for some, focusing in on the glass on the nightstand. He follows my line of vision and gets up, handing it to me but making sure our hands never touch. I whisper a thanks and take cautious sips of the liquid. It revitalises me when it pours into me. It's not as cold as I'd like, lukewarm really, but it's welcomed.
We stay like that for a while, both in silence while I readjust to my surroundings, pulling myself out of the spiral. He never pushes for me to speak or explain myself, just watches me intently to make sure I'm alright. Around him, I feel better, but this is something that I've had to live with for too long.
Trauma is a disease.
After some time, I place the empty glass in between us. My head leans back on the wall again, but I keep my eyes trained on him. I haven't controlled my breathing still, but at least I'm aware of my surroundings. It's a start.
Harry clears his throat. He's sat cross-legged now, hands in his lap. 'Did someone hurt you?' he whispers. It's a hesitant question, unsure whether he has the right to ask. Most people just assume what happened. I haven't even told Cathy about it. She's aware something bad occurred, but I've never explicitly said it. I don't intend on doing so tonight, either.
I nod timidly but don't say a word. Nothing I say can change it. Just like nothing he does will erase it. What's done is done. We cannot undo the past, only try to mould the present and future to try and make it better than what's come before. I'm not sure I've done a very good job so far.
'Were you having a nightmare about the men in the shop?' he continues, trying to get to the bottom of it.
They have yet to appear in my sleeping mind. I suppose I've spent most of my time since then with Harry. I've not slept much, and when I have it's only been down to complete exhaustion. Their time will come, that much is certain. Stuff like that can't easily be forgotten. Especially when there's the prospect of it happening again, but not knowing when.
'No,' I manage to croak out. My eyes close and I try to settle in the darkness behind my eyelids. The images of it have finally stopped, but my body is still electrified with terror. This always happens. I never go back to sleep after. Sometimes I'll shower, other times I just wait until the sun rises. I used to go on walks too, but with the danger that is now present, I don't think that's a viable option anymore.
For now, I'll stay here and try to calm my brain. Quiet the noise.
I clear my throat, wanting to end the tension in the air. 'I feel like I'm suffocating all the time, like there's this unwavering pressure on my chest,' I admit. My arms are resting on my knees now. The wind outside has picked up a bit, but it's not as violent as the storm that raged a few nights ago. The windows don't rattle, the house doesn't creak. It's eerily silent. 'Is it supposed to be like this?' I ask, pain in my voice. I've always wondered whether this was something I'd ever get over, but there's been no progress yet.
Harry shifts slightly, but still maintains his distance. He's respecting my boundaries right now. 'We're all afraid of something, Atlas. I keep my demons locked away just like you. We're only human,' he says, voice calm. I'm not sure if it's meant to be reassuring, it's quite bleak in all honesty, but it does lull my worries a little.
The silence settles again. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, like he's worried I'll fall apart if he looks away. There's something quite soothing about how attentive he's being, even if I'm not letting him achieve much. Just having him here is enough right now. Usually I face these episodes alone, but tonight I have company. Perhaps it will help to have someone near.
I never imagined I'd find comfort in Harry. Quite frankly, he's the last person I ever assumed would fall into that category. But being in his presence makes me feel safer than I would if I were in my flat right now. It's helps to alleviate the tension in my shoulders, my muscles relaxing with each passing minute we sit together.
Eventually he speaks again, feet now touching mine. It's a small gesture, but one that I appreciate. He's trying to make me comfortable around him again. 'I can't undo whatever happened in your past, but I can make sure I'm there for you if it occurs again.'
The words are enough to push another tear out of my eye. It trickles down my cheek quickly, but catches on my jaw, sitting there for a few seconds until it falls. Then more follow, like the dam has been opened and a tsunami is on the way. Crying is so exhausting, but right now it's all I can manage. He doesn't need to know what I've been through, but he's stating that he'll be there, that he'll protect me just like he promised. If only he knew what I needed protecting from.
I'm finally ready for his relief, though. He shuffles closer, and I let him, until he's right in front of me and his hands are timidly placed on my cheeks, trying to wipe the tears away as they fall. He hushes me, placing a soft kiss to my forehead. I'm pulled into his chest, his arms wrapped around me. This is the first act of affection we've shown to each other. His hands are moving up and down my back, trying to soothe me, but the tears keep coming. There are sobs getting stuck in my throat. It feels like when you cry as a kid and can't breathe because you're so overwhelmed.
I cling onto him for dear life, grasping at his skin. It's so warm compared to the chill that's settled over me. The longer we stay in this embrace the more I want to stay like it. It's relaxing, even if I am having trouble with maintaining my composure.
After some time, his hand now resting on the back of my head, he speaks again. 'Has anyone ever helped with this before?' he questions, still whispering as if any sudden noise will send me into a panic.
It's so gentle, the way he talks to me. I'm not used to it, in truth. Not just with him, but with most men. There's always an element of commandment behind a man's tone. Most of the time Harry has this, but he always knows when to drop it with me, not pushing me over the edge. He respects my boundaries better than most.
I suck in a sharp breathe. 'Dad, but he can't anymore,' I state, keeping my face nuzzled into his neck.
My hands are joined around his neck now, clinging to him like a child. 'What reminds you of him?'
I feel my eyebrows knit together while I think about my answer. There are so many things that make me think of Dad. He's my person. The one I rely on. 'Ducks,' I answer, earning a light laugh. He encourages me to continue. 'Tulips. He used to grow them in the garden,' I say, feeling him nod against me. 'Lemon cake.' I can still taste his recipe in my mouth. 'Music, he really loves music.'
At this, Harry perks up, removing my head from his shoulder and holding my face in his hands. 'I think I know what to do,' he declares, wiping the last bits of moisture from my cheeks. He moves me off his lap, standing to his feet and holding a hand out for me. I cautiously take it.
We move out of the room slowly, leading down the dark hallway. He walks us down the stairs, knowing the way through muscle memory without needing to turn a light on. We stop at a door near the kitchen. I know what's on the other side from when I went snooping a few days back.
He turns the handle, turning a small lamp on near the door. A pool of light illuminates the room, revealing everything as I remembered it. Pieces of furniture covered in white cloth, a musky scent filling the room from lack of use. Harry walks over to the main item, slowly dragging the material off to reveal the piano I found. The mahogany is darker in this light, but the patterns on the roof still stand out.
His body turns to face me, head nodding towards it. 'I don't know if you play, but you can have a fiddle around with it if it helps,' he claims, hands clasped in front of him while he nervously bounces on his feet.
I do as I'm told, moving over to the seat and perching on it slowly. The keys are cold, sending an initial shock wave through me when I press the first one just to familiarise myself with the sound of the instrument. There are a few tunes I still remember from my youth, ones I'd learnt with my teacher and then Dad after lessons. Though I haven't played in years, I think I can still manage a few chords. I don't believe that skill ever really leaves you.
Harry stands next to me, his fingers dragging through some of the dust on top. 'It's my mum's. She let me keep it,' he informs me, keeping his gaze down. I understand that it's not easy for him to talk about his family. The few instances he has have always been cut short. But he still continues, allowing himself to open up to me. 'I wrote the cords on the keys one day because I wanted to learn her favourite song. That fingerprint was a result of covering myself in ink. When she found it she was so angry, but she never decided to clean it. I think she liked seeing them.'
I watch him as he recalls tales of his youth, enjoying the distraction. 'Do you play?' I ask, wondering if he'll join me.
He shakes his head, pinching at his bottom lip when he finally meets me gaze. 'No, I'm dreadful at that stuff. Just like to have it around to remind myself of happy things,' he replies, a small smile on his lips. 'Do you?'
'A little, it's been a while,' I confess, a little nervous at the prospect.
He comes around the chair and sits next to me, placing his hand on my thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. 'Play something that reminds you of him,' he insists, keeping his eyes on mine in reassurance.
I let my hands trace the keys, trying to remember the notes of any tune. Most of what Dad listens to is insanely technical. He loves classical music. There are a few I still listen to every now and again, but most of it goes over my head. I'm not capable of playing any of it really, but I could probably try.
Then a tune finally appears, one that is recent. Sergei Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. The song that played in the restaurant the day Harry asked me to join his team, before I even knew what that entailed. Before all the mess that followed. One of my favourites. I saw a ballet performance of it once, with a full orchestra playing behind. The only time I've attended such an event. Dad used to listen to it a lot, said it reminded him of someone he used to know. He never specified, though. I never considered him to hold secrets, but I suppose everyone has them.
The piece is very string heavy, but the piano carries the melody. The particular segment I remember is variation 18. A softer portion of it. Magical in a lot of ways. A lyrical piece that's melodic. It makes me feel lighter. A romantic work of art, that reminds me of all the beauty in the world when I forget it. I feel like I'm dancing when I listen to it.
My fingers begin the work, timidly playing the first few notes. It's in the key A minor, that I do remember. I let them lead me, recalling the tune I once played for my father. It's like all the fear is being washed away as I fall back into the joy I felt with him. It seeps into the music, calming me down. The tune is comforting.
Harry watches me with a keen eye. His breathing is slowed, relaxed. My eyes always stay on the keys as I try to play what I know. There are a few mistakes here and there, but for the most part, I remember it well.
There's a quote from Bob Marley that says when music hits you, you feel no pain. It's true, for in this moment I am finally content. The memories of this evening have subsided for now while I reminisce on more pleasant times. It distracts me from my worries, lets me escape the pain that consumed me. For now, I am free. I am safe.
Harry is quiet, his head resting on my shoulder. When I peek over, I realise his eyes have closed. He's asleep. He looks so peaceful, so innocent. I know that no matter how hard I try I will not be able to fall back into a state of unconsciousness, I'm not sure I really want to. But I enjoy having him close. I don't want to disturb him.
Instead, I let him remain, small whimpers leaving his mouth every now and again, while he falls into a deeper slumber. I stop playing after a while, turning my attention to the window. Darkness is now leaving us, the sun rising. Strokes of pink and yellow paint the sky. It's a blissful moment in the eye of the storm.
It may not last for long, but I want to bask in it for as long as possible, feeling the rays on my skin and hearing the sweet sound of Harry's breathing. I never envisioned this life for myself, but in this moment I am satisfied. Maybe I'll never be truly safe, out of harm's way, but in his presence I believe I can be. And that's something I need to hold on to.
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A:N: If you're from the UK, and this content has affected you in any way, R*pe Crisis and Survivors UK are two fantastic organisations that specialise in victim support. They have national helplines and free centres of support.
RC: https://rapecrisis.org.uk/
SUK: https://www.survivorsuk.org/
From what I've found, RAINN seems to be a great organisation in the US. You can access them here: https://www.rainn.org/
I want you all to know, your trauma is valid. The way that you deal with it is allowed. I send love to anyone that has gone through something similar to what Atlas has endured. I don't add this storyline in just for the sake of it, I know it's a common trope in fanfics to have women be victims. Like most things I write, I put myself into my characters. These are experiences I know. Writing is a way to let out what I feel. Sure, running around stealing jewels isn't how I cope, but creating a story about it is bloody fun and helps distract my mind.
Thanks for all the love. Please stay safe x