Note: So I've recently been reading a few books recently...
Warning: May require some vague triggers of rape, please skip the italics if the idea is unbearable. Thank you.
--@--
He doesn't remember how or where he fell asleep, all that came to mind, is that he was at a bloodlust stupor, lots of giggling, lots of screaming, then finally, in what felt like centuries, his mind finally blanked out, and he finds himself in yet another pinnacle haze.
Is he high?
Very unlikely.
If he was quote on quote, possibly 'high', this feeling shouldn't be branded onto his chest, shouldn't even feel like a fucking tattoo from the cheap marihuana that he managed to purchase from a shady guy with a black hoodie, black pants, black shoes--black everything really.
He couldn't place where he was, nor can he see, or even smell where he lay. He wishes it was something nice, like a colourful (yet hopefully decent-smelling) flower garden, can probably be some gritty sidewalk that smells like gravel and rocks? He's not sure how to describe a rocks scent, but anything can be be better than flat out piss on the floor; he's hoping that it hadn't come down to that.
But, with all this haze of confusion spiraling along his mind, all he felt was the hands that prodded at him like he was in embodiment of a limp doll, feeling as if all the energy that powered every cell in his body flicker on and off, as he manages to weakly push whatever was touching him, achingly (with all the strength he is left with) away, then, as if the rug was snatched away right from under him, his ability to move became laboured.
He thinks he can feel the groan bubbling in his throat, the air finding itself down his shrunken, oxygen-deprived lungs, but he felt so ethereal, like he had no body to even mediate to anymore, like he was nothing but another cloud to float by a rainy day; a new type of high per se.
Really, he should feel blissful, should feel unreal, and probably magical, but..
But thing is, he shouldn't feel this scared, this fucking terrified to fall. He thinks he can see the edge of a 600-foot building from the gravel right beneath his feet (so wait, what? He's standing now?), thinks that he's already in the brink of falling down, both hands bound behind him, and either one or both eyes mangled and bruised, vision in complete distortion, with no indication of what direction he would possibly be headed.
He felt like he was in vertigo the moment rough winds brushed along his flushed, sweat-damped skin, felt like that was the only thing that gave him the push, that little shove that sent him barreling down to the unknown--to the wretched thing they called Earth.
And then, and then he felt his mouth slacken, felt it like a glass of week-old molasses, felt his throat constrict as the pressure on his lung increases, ribs digging at his organs as he screams, screams even if he himself could not hear it, screams for the help he so desperately needed, screams at the small possibility that his family will hear his quiet plea, screams for his own stupidity, his own arrogance, naiveté--screams for salvation.
He remembers his ears ringing at the sound, remembers the slick, nimble, yet foreign fingertips forcing themselves down his mouth, felt it as clear as day, as he sputters, and chokes, chokes on fingers that remained, chokes on the saliva dribbling down his cheeks, chokes in the moment he's living in--chokes on the world.
He thinks he can feel the hot breath tickling his ears, can feel the sound of soothing words that is meant to remedy the situation, to try and make him feel better, to feel safe, but Harry's too far gone in within himself to even notice anything other than the strong scent that prodded at his nostrils, that scent that somehow managed to keep him rooted to the floor in some weird, intangible way. That smelt of musk that probably came from a daily use of cigarettes, and wait, does he smell gardenias?
Harry shakes his head, wiping any of those unwanted thoughts away, wiped it till it gleamed of nothing but the pure hatred he intended to feel. "No." He thrashes as he somehow found the ability to be able to use words, the language already foreign when spoken with his own mouth. "Please."
But the touching never ceases, never ceases as his breath hitches the moment those tainted hands find themselves down the his spine, as the disgusting goosebumps start to sliver its way down his spine.
"No, please." He blubbers. "Please," hot tears streams down his face. "stop."
-
He breaks out in cold sweat as the morning sun flashed themselves directly at his retinas, only burning him temporarily as he whips the thick, black duvet around his long, lithe body, as he involuntarily shivers at the memory.
He throws an arm around his eyes as he lays flatly on his back, afraid that if he closes them for even a second, that he'd have to go through the unending loop of deranged nightmares, that kind that he used to have, even when he was nothing but a boy with dirty blonde hair, who could pass off as a patron's son, only when he, or if he gets his waters for the day (of course).
He thinks for a moment that his senses had been obliterated like it had once, to lose the ability to smell, the ability to be able to hear, but then, he flickers to his little gadget from his skin-tight jeans (they're not tight at all actually, he'd like to think of them as snug and comfortable; probably why he snagged himself at least this one and another--2 pairs of jeans, yey!), even having to squirm infinitesimal little movements, just enough that his long, pale fingertips can grab ahold of a corner of the fancy (albeit really cheap) gadget he'd managed to purchase, that he'd seen on the hands of many young'uns and very few old souls; Harry always yields to temptation.
He figures that if he's going to live in--he clicks the damn thing open, prods at every single conceivable button to ever exist in the bloody thing--present day 2014, he might as well acquire something practical, something that can easily be used whenever or wherever he needed it, something that can momentarily feel like he was born in this century; a tangible connection between similar, yet very different eras.
*
It took a bit of motivation, and a bit of self-inflected threats to finally, 'finally' tug himself out of the massive cocoon that surrounded him and be able to move through this--he shields his eyes slightly as he glares down the open view--hotel room, and settle for whatever looked good on the overly ostentatious, embroided-said menu that contained a variety of pastries (in artful and visually pleasing assortments), and dishes (whose names appeared to be more on the French side, than the English) in small, decent portioning that costs more than what is provided, thick stacks of laminated pages, blaring at him from where it lay flatly on top the freshly crafted mid-length wooden oak drawer right by the side where Harry had slept just moments ago.
Really, he's not one to be too overly picky as to what type of food he'll consume (since being a vampire had dulled his human senses to be able to appreciate anything other than blood), just that it would have to be presented, preferably, on freshly cleaned china (he'd rather not appear like something as low and as degrading as mongrel every chance he gets--thank you very much).
*
Within ten minutes time, he hears the sound of a knock echo along the narrows halls and crevices of his said room, just as he is about to pull down his trousers to remove all the sticky, disgusting gunk of what looks to be dirt smeared with dry heaps of blood, smothered along his body in mostly his jumper-clad torso, and some faint, healed gashes where she scratched at his back as he plunges himself into her multiple times, just as she is about to reach her climax, right on time as he sinks his teeth right at her jugular, to have her scream in absolute ecstasy, spurting from where she lay, and boneless, and pliant within seconds that he pulled out.
He wishes that he had no recollection of what had happened yesterday, wishes that he'd have gotten the girl in deep intoxication, so much so that she could barely keep up with coherency of the way she spoke, that even she could not remember her own name. That way, he too can also forget, or at least throw it in with the unsurprisingly growing amount of useless memories he was able to acquire through the years.
But then again, he doubts she'll even remember him, doubts that she'd even have done anything with another person; Harry's not naive to the inevitability of black-out drinking, as he literally purchased for her an endless amount of booze and sloshy 'pretty blue drinks' that she could barely even walk straight, so she used Harry as some kind of solid leverage to cling onto till she lay sprawled onto the carpeted flooring, only a meter away from the thick plush of the bed, mouth hanging at a small slack, eyes already glazed over as she whines for Harry to do something--anything to crave her thirst for him.
Harry of course, raised as a well-trained gentleman (Ha!), had given into the woman's wishes (not even caring if he hadn't done so much as to even shed a bit of his clothing), and did as he was told, palming at her damp bloomers--lingerie (he's got to remember the bloody modern terms), and inserts his digits onto her clitoris, to open her up, then plunge fully onto her without warning.
He remembers how her begging ceases, remembers how satisfied she had sounded as she takes what she could get, smiling in total bliss, as he goes in deeper, and deeper, till her screaming transitions into weak whimpers, her eyes flickering over to nothing in particular, mouth hanging fully open as chunks of her dirty brown hair remain stuck on the side of her cheek bones, breathing erratic as she comes down from her high.
Minutes after, she wanted to be held, wanted to be cared for, as her own consciousness drifts further up into subspace, begging for him, eager to gain his attention, as he smirked at how he had finally unravelled the tenacious woman through and through into this babbling heaps of sweat and dirtied limbs.
Persistent as she may have been in bed, the woman had a rather... Unique taste for submissive men (those strikingly mud streak irises give out more than what she thinks--eyes is a window to a person's soul and all that), but Harry, well, he was an exception (not that it comes off as a surprise), she found his 'youth' as a reflection of child-like innocence, which led her to believe that two and two could be a possibility, and that Harry can be that very thing that she was looking for. But, to Harry he saw her as just another obstacle to conquer, a new conquest to fulfill, so who was he to refuse another body to ravage?
Harry can't say he doesn't enjoy the attention (because really, he basks on it on a daily basis), but in all his years of experiences in cunning wiles, and one-night stands (he thinks that's how people say it), he'd rather not risk about disclosing any information on him, so right after he was done with her, he made sure to manipulate her into thinking that she had accidentally done it with another said woman (preferably because she seemed repulsed by the thought of women, as she distances herself in a corner with a gaggle of intoxicated male minors), whose face she couldn't remember, so that there wouldn't be any information pressed on him, so if she was to somewhat find the identity of the person who devoured her in both her body and blood--which in fact, appear unlikely at this point, (but it's good to have a backup of sorts to stay under any radars that may lurk), because he left her on some cheap ass motel a few blocks away from him (he refuses to acknowledge the fact that his useless photographic memory had known exactly where it was and how long of a trek it will take him), littered in absolute filth with cockroaches and centipedes that lurk on about in just about every hotel room; Harry would have loved to see how she'd reacted in her wake.
Though, if she were to reveal anything, Harry's presence is anything but visible, so it's highly unlikely that she can even come close to ever finding anybody associated with him.
Plus, there is about a low percentage he's in Yorkshire (the only place where Harry is known to exist, and some other places too, but that's only through flats and liability to sport cars and other properties he vaguely remembers purchasing), seeing as he's not suffocated by the rainy weather and cramped surroundings, so yes, he's sure it's a full-proof veil to cover himself with, as he finds himself in isolation to get his thoughts together of what's yet to come, if he did decide to complicate his life once more by getting himself involved with that self-loathing, suicidal human that plunged himself onto death's door by meeting eye-to-eye with Harry, mocking him with an undeserved sneer (Harry thinks it's a sneer--probably a sneer) in his direction that, for some strange reason that Harry cannot start to fathom (even with the centuries of experience down his belt).
The knock came again; insistently at this point in time.
He wasn't expecting any visitors, heck, he didn't place a bloody a order for some much needed food service that he so gladly craved (It's a rare occasion, but he does get those moments), but nevertheless, he still heads for the door.
"Sorry!" Harry rasps, as his thoughts were pushed aside, as he plunges himself towards the door, not even bothering slip onto a his dirty rag of a jumper, as he unlocks the door fairly quickly as he meets eyes with an attractive lady (who looked be on her early 20's--maybe 24?25?), who looked like she was ripped right out of a famous magazine cover.
She wore a pair of French onyx stilettos, the company uniform of a plain white silk button up, and a mid-thigh length black skirt that hugged her pair-shaped structure. Her hair was styled into a neat bun to showcase her copper/golden highlights and smoky grey eyes (--don't even try ask Harry about how intoxicating and alluring she smelt with just one whiff).
The waitress coughed with faint humour, as Harry did another once over, before sending a flirty wink that had her legs hitch up just slightly, as she squirms under his quiet scrutiny, smirk quirked down a little as she acknowledges her inferiority towards him.
"Steamed marmot sirloin with river almonds, chokeberries and chinese chestnuts. Served with rum, brined brocciu and white bread with jam for Mr. Taylor--" She smiles, hauling a silver trolley right up to his door (--Mr. Taylor was one of Harry's many said aliases).
He blinks, casting a lingering glance at the space behind her, his brows furrowed just slightly, as he gives her an acknowledging nod, and accepts the tray from her awaiting hands, his black, slick credit card just within arms reach.
The woman, Barbara smirks at him, waving her hand in refusal.
"Complementary dish, from the generous benefactor of the building himself; this meal is free of charge, sir." She chimes, tucking in a brunette lock behind one ear, and cocking her head to the side suggestively, as she unravels her pale white neck in full view, her jugular fluttering like a thousand moths wings--so totally unlike the demeanor she's shown so far. Interesting. "Would there be anything else that you need? Something more... Sustaining...perhaps?" She drawls out in a suggestive tone.
Never mind, he takes that back, she's the devil who wears Prada.
Harry merely shakes his head, appearing lost and mildly trepid (ha! 20 Oscars--he deserves 20 fuckin' Oscars for this award-winning performance).
"No, it's--No, it's fine." He coughs, hiding the prolonged silence and sending her a small nod, waving her off with nothing but empty wiles, probably a kiss to the cheek to showcase his complete indifference, how unaffected he was by the underlying suggestion that she had so carelessly thrown around about like it was another question about the weather; it's somehow irked him a bit, but he kept his temper at bay.
"It's fine." He repeats again, as she made absolutely no movement from where she stood.
The position was kept, till the woman's wretched pager alerted her of another order. She clicks her tongue in distaste.
"Alright!" She beams. "That was... The chef, paging me for another delivery, best of luck for what's to come Mr. Styles, best of luck!"
And she was off, even before he can voice out a sound of protest.
There was a beat of silence, as Harry angrily hurls the untouched tray towards the bathroom sink, not even caring if it made a mess of shattered glass and shard-coated food, because it wouldn't make any difference, since:
One, he definitely needs to get a new bloody shirt.
Two, if he doesn't fucking get out of this room some time soon, he'll get that urge again to burn down yet another respectable building to smithereens, to hear the delicious screams and wails that blared alarmingly around him.
It was, what? 12 pm in the afternoon and fuck, he hasn't even taken his shower yet. Great.
--&--
"So they're all 250 pounds each?" The guy confirms as he rakes his eyes over the pile of mid-condition books that Louis held, each pointed end poking angrily at his biceps, as he shuffles his feet awkwardly, while trying his hardest not to let the bloody, 5 pound health and nutrition books fall over.
"Yes." He breathed as he silently curses the gods above for condemning him with a heavy weight to bear--literally. "Yeah, 250 pounds each."
The boy nods, handing Louis a thick manila envelope, as he slides the books out of Louis' hands that showed no signs of any struggle (fuck, he's so surprisingly fit, now that Louis' got a good once over), and bidding him a quiet goodbye, before turning around, and heading towards another direction, towards the parking lot, where that fancy, very expensive-looking (and wait, does he hear the sound of the choir?) metallic red convertible that looks to run about 0-60 mph in like 12.66 seconds. Louis absolutely does not drool, he admires.
"Wait!" Louis finds himself calling out.
The boy halts from where he stood, turning to face him, chocolate brown eyes catching in the golden glint of light that illuminated from where they both stood.
"Yes?" He asks.
"I.." Louis chews on his lower lip, slipping his fingertips within the fold of the opening, glancing at it briefly, then back to the boy. "This is definitely more than 1000 pounds, I--"
The boy chuckles, the sound catching in the wind as the leaves serenely breezes by the both of them, the quiet twinkle of children's voices echoing in the background, the sound of vehicles, mute. "No worries, mate." He assures him stiffly, albeit proudly. "I've got more than enough to pass me by a few books."
Louis blinks, baffled. "Mate, this here looks to be--" his fingers flick through the thick stack of cash in hand "--like around fifty two hundred pounds, that's way more than what those books are worth." More than I'd ever deserve in a lifetime, Louis wanted to add.
Brown eyes shrugs, smiling sheepishly with an easy shrug. "Like I said." He repeats. "I've got more than enough to let me buy a measly amount of books."
Well then.
Louis didn't know how to respond to that.
A beat of silence.
"Anyways," brown eyes checks his fancy, gold wrist watch that hang along his lightly tanned skin. "There's someone I've been anxious to meet, um.." He trails off like he's trying to explain why he needs to cancel on a meeting that was never made.
Louis snorts. "Mate, you don't need to explain, I get it." He shrugs, nonchalant. "You just can't stand being near me."
Brown eyes widens his eyes, shaking his head immediately in complete bewilderment. "No!" He coughs. "No, um, I'm not, I--"
Louis couldn't help it, but he laughs at that, clutching, heaving, radiating sun beams at each giggle that he didn't expect to carelessly slip out his lips, but the moment drew to a stop, and it was then that he realized that he'd been laughing for far too long, cheeks hurting from the foreign muscle exhaustion, so he chews on his lower lip, biting back another wave of laughter as he takes in the boy's confused expression.
"Relax," Louis assures him. "I'm just yanking on your leg mate."
The boy surprisingly rolls his eyes, reaction as if he's used to it, a wry smile moulded upon his lips. "You know--" he curses, hearing a small ring from his phone (probably indicating a new text message). "I, uh gotta go." He suddenly states, and he was headed for another street within seconds, expression stoic and unreadable.
Louis blinks as the boy's figure disappears from his view and swallowed in within the thick cluster of the crowd, watching as, like the wind itself, the brown-eyed boy dispersed into yet another location.
Feeling a small migraine settle itself firmly on his head, Louis figured that he too should head home also, a few thousand pounds hidden away within the recesses of his crappy navy blue duffle bag right at his shoulder, he settles off for a run, hair whipping at his cheekbones, his forehead, his eyes, in every possible, inconceivable direction that Louis had not bothered to even care for.
His day was drawing near, heart fluttering a thousand beats per minute along his chest, blood pumping along his ears as his pace quickened, and burned from the cold, biting air that rushed along his lungs, a small smile etched along his face as he went faster, and faster, unaware of the commotion that surrounded him, hearing nothing but the foreign bloom of elation thrumming along his veins, the heat filling up his cheeks comfortingly.
His life was finally beginning to move forward from its years long hiatus, its seed sprouting roots from the barren ground that it was firmly planted on.
But...
Along with that life comes with a price.
Sure, Louis is unaware of that yet, but a small a pebble was thrown, and an infinitesimal wave had already began to form, along with another, then another, into a plethora of waves, awaiting patiently for the the right opportunities to present itself, and to roll off and break the thin sheet of transparent waters with the strength of a thousand hammers.
Oh what fun he is going to have, chuckles faith from up above.
* *
{Vote/Comment) Please? :) .x
Notes: So, yeah... Oops?