I have an odd obsession with One Tree Hill, it's all I watch nowadays. Happy New Year by the way readers! I appreciate every single one of you.
I hate how I wrote this. Sometimes I hate being dramatic but this is a very dramatic but significant chapter in Anobrain.
Unedited as usual.
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chapter fifty-six. it was written in blood.
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THIS WEEK WAS LONDON; London, England. The U.K. soil elicits a euphoria underneath my skin, within my bones. Especially when the realisation that Harry is two hours and change train ride away from me — coming to see me also. The large build-up of video chats, sexual phone conversations, and conversations aren't enough to feel the real Harry. To see the real Harry.
And those bright green orbs. Filled with swirls and swirls of hazels and dark ambers and blues. That dull dull blue colours that has the capability to speed up the rhythm of someone's heartbeat with just a brief stare or blink. I miss Harry; my best friend, my boyfriend. There's only an hour until his arrival.
There's this anxious feeling as I, impatiently, wait for him. Frustrated not only sensually but emotionally, too. To hear those subconscious thoughts and the three words, eight letter mantra spoken during anything we participate to do. Words cannot describe the amount of longing I have for Harry.
To subside the strong and broad feeling in my gut I make a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Along with a cup of Vanilla flavoured soy milk, and by the time it is all ingested waiting for the gradual digested -- finished -- — my hotel rooms doorbell begins ringing vigorously.
It's Harry. The sight of him makes those familiar butterflies appear. Attack at my stomach and my heart pummels and slams and stirs against my ribcage. My poor, poor, poor ribcage. Almost soon to be dust or transparent soot; there isn't an in between to the analogy. My lips broaden into a beam. One that's only existent in the presence of Harry, and a very feminine squeal passed through them. One to never speak of ever again.
Harry looks at me with that crooked smile I've come to love. A braid in his hair with joggers hanging low on his hips. A medium sized duffle-bag upon his shoulder. His pale skin is transitioning to tan from the blazing sun making a seasonal appearance around this time. But nevertheless I attack him. Arms wrapping around Harry's neck as they pull him down into a heated yet passionate kiss.
The kind to initiate excitement and all of the yearn for Harry disappears. When we detach and break apart he chases my lips with his own. "I missed you so much," I tell him, because it has been quite a while. "And other parts of you."
My words cause him to laugh wholeheartedly, fondly. "We missed you too," Harry says to me.
FOR THE REMAINDER OF the night we cuddle in the dark. Proudly watching The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, a classic. One that Harry and I practically grew up watching during our childhood next to The Outsiders, The Wizard of Oz, and The Breakfast Club. Those were the easier years where the future wasn't even questioned. When all of my surroundings failed to apply mental pressure onto me.
Boy have things changed during the transitioning of year to year to another year and another year. 'Til now— and the thought of changing doesn't apply to Harry. His personality stuck just like the current outerwear he continues to wear beside me. A hoodie with drawstrings pulled to its tightest and --
"Why haven't you changed out of your clothes?" I ask him. "You look uncomfortable." There's a hint of teasing in my tone to lighten up the very hesitant question. "Take it off."
Harry looks at me warily. A pinch -- or a more than a dash -- of hesitance in the green of his eyes when I reach for the bottom of Harry's hoodie as I remove the material from the attachment it began forming with his abdomen.
It takes four seconds, Psychology says. Four seconds for a party of more than one to grow awkward around one another. Four seconds. Who could've of inferred or predicted or made an assumption that four seconds can alter the flow of agreement myself and Harry discussed for our relationship before all of this abrupt travelling began? Who would've known four seconds could change everything?
In the four seconds — the four seconds Harry's hoodie was removed from his body, automatic, faint love-bites were discovered alongside his collarbones. And they weren't from me since Harry and I haven't engaged in anything sexual –- excluding virtual activities -- in about one month.
A deep frown instantaneously appears on my face I know it. Eyebrows creasing confusingly because I am beyond confused. As of why these are here. From whom? When? My first thought is to move away from Harry. Move far far away and he allows me to.
"What are these?" It's a rhetorical question. "Who gave these to you?" My eyes don't bother to meet his at all.
But when they do — when I fight with myself to turn away, I see Harry blanch, stutter out, "It isn't what you think."
Just as abrupt as this turn of events causes a headache to pound and pound my skull fatally. Possibly from this conversation or from my first gutted instinct. It's too bad my hand tightly holds onto my head to seize the constant ache. My ribcage splits in half at the possibilities of Harry pounding into, lying beside another guy that isn't me. Or girl.
It causes my heart to stutter as my fingers trace the fading but dark bruises. Large in quantity, prolonged in quality.
Harry remains quiet. It only fires me up. "I go away for a month, one month and you–. You cheated on me," the realisation weakens before killing me psychologically. "I waited for you, but you couldn't wait for me?"
There's four habitual stages: denial, confusion, anger, and anguish before there is a gradual use of acceptance. But there isn't any of that for me. I don't feel that sudden wave of anger erupting through me like a dangerous volcano and its deadly though heated magma. There isn't anything to deny.
Disappointment. Hysterically disappointed. My hands form fists as they hit and hit and hit and hit until my vision clouds and blurs and fades and fades. Whimpers sound out and I don't know who they actually belong to, but there's a sudden grasp to my wrists.
"It isn't what it looks like," the same explanation from Harry. I feel a hand wipe at my eyes. If I wasn't constrained I wouldn't have noticed my crying.
"Who?" Is all I ask. I finally see Harry bite as his lip. I see him heave a hand through his taut hair as a remorsefully dramatic sigh exits past his pretty pink lips.
It's a chapter in our lives, in our relationship I swore we've gotten past. "Get out," is all I can muster up to say, to command of Harry.
He complies and departs as I cut off all of the lights afterwards, similar to what Harry did for our almost flawless relationship.
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A little under ten chapters until Anobrain is finished. I've been slow with all of the updating but I swear I am trying my hardest to get back on track. We will see this out until the end.
Also, check out Dream, my third and possibly final fanfic. There rarely will be A/N's and the plot is, kind of, significant. Happy New Years by the way everyone.