Content warning // hunting
"Shoot, Harry."
Harry looks at his father with fear in his eyes. He's wearing a big fluffy coat and a hat, and his dark eyes look at the young boy threateningly like the ones of a vulture waiting for a prey to drop dead.
It's winter and the air is cold around them, the ground frozen. Harry's knees are in the dirt, the weight of a shotgun he can barely lift up in his hands. He wishes they could go back home, but knows they're too far into the forest to be heard by anyone.
"N-no," he stutters. His teeth are clattering and he can't feel his fingers anymore. He doesn't like this. He never asked to be taken there. He wishes he was still in the warmth of the palace, but he isn't.
Staying inside and watching the snow fall over Northfair is for children, his father always says. And he isn't a child anymore.
The man grabs the back of his neck, pulling him closer to him harshly. "You know what I hate, Harry?" He asks in his ear, his voice low not to scare the hare some feet ahead of them.
It's still in the middle of the clearing, its ears perked up, and Harry hopes it'll understand the danger and escape. But it doesn't move, and he doesn't dare to make a sound to scare him away. The last time he did that, he was locked in a room for two days with nothing but water.
He shakes his head, and his father continues.
"I hate you. I hate every part of you. I wish I had a better heir, someone who's worthy of the empire I built, and yet I have you. You're a disappointment, I raised you to be better than this. Stop acting like a girl and shoot the damn hare, Harry, or I'll lock you in the closet and leave you there. Prove me there's something in you worth saving."
Harry is trembling like a leaf in autumn now, but knows his father is right. He knows he's a disappointment. He's nothing like the child his father wished he'd have, he should do better.
But he can't shoot that animal. Something inside of him recoils at the simple thought of doing that. He doesn't want to hurt it. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He just wants to live his life and let others live theirs in peace.
His father's grip tightens on him. "Shoot."
He raises the shotgun again and points it at the rabbit, but he can't get himself to press the trigger. This is wrong, something inside him screams. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
"It's just hunting," his father whispers again. "Shoot it like I taught you to shoot the cardboard targets."
But this isn't a cardboard target, Harry thinks. He doesn't want to kill, it doesn't matter whether it's a person or an animal. He doesn't want to bring pain to anyone.
But his father doesn't care.
He thinks about missing the hare, but his father will know he did it on purpose. He taught him to shoot when he was ten. He waited until he was so good that he didn't deliver a single blow that wouldn't kill the target even when they shot for hours, and then he started taking him with him when he goes hunting.
They've been in that same position twenty times over the past year. Every time, Harry found a way to spare the unlucky game that came in his father's radar. He knows he reached the limit now. He won't let him get out of it again.
When his father was twelve, his grandfather taught him how to hunt and he loved it. Harry is his same age now, but they couldn't be more different. He hates gratuitous violence. He despises it, and his father despises him for it.
"Shoot, Harry. Shoot right now."
"No." His voice trembles and his body shivers. He doesn't dare to think of what will happen when they go back home.
His father's fingers press angrily against the back of his neck. "Shoot." There's a clear threat in his voice.
Harry doesn't move.
"Shoot, Harry, or Carina will take your place."
The mention of his sister wakes something up inside the young boy. "No!" He whispers in shock. "Please don't." He can't have her subjected to that. She'd break. She's too good for that.
"Then shoot. Shoot right now, or I'll take you back home and Carina will take your place."
Harry closes his eyes, the tears sliding down his cheeks drying up immediately because of the cold, leaving painful burning streams on his skin.
"Shoot it now."
He's already disgusted with himself. He wants to crawl out of his skin and disappear into nothing. There's a sour taste in his mouth, and he's sure he's about to puke.
His finger hovers over the trigger, and then, in a quick motion not to give himself time to change his mind, he presses it. The shotgun kicks back and he's sent to the ground, dirt in his mouth. His father lets go of him.
He opens his eyes, but doesn't dare to make a move. The older man stands up and walks to the middle of the clearing.
Harry doesn't need the confirmation, but it comes anyway.
"Good boy."
He lets out a choked sob, shaking violently on the ground. He feels sick, so sick. He can't do it. He can't. He's crying hysterically, and his father walks back to him and lifts him up.
"I knew you could be shaped into being the man you should be," he says approvingly, but Harry doesn't feel glad. He doesn't feel happy.
He's strived for his approval since forever. There's nothing he wanted more than to hear him be proud of him, to be treated like he doesn't deeply hate him. He's always been weak compared to him, too kind, too friendly, too happy, just like his mother. His father never liked that. First he took away his mother's smile, then her interest in her children, and then he turned to him. Carina is a bit older than Harry, but she's a girl, and his father has never seen her as the one that should take on his job when the time comes. Harry should be his heir, his disappointing only son. Harry doesn't mind. He'll do anything to protect his sister.
But even though his father even smiles at him, he doesn't feel accomplished now. He doesn't feel anything but overwhelming pain, the one that shatters something deep inside his chest that can never be truly fixed, only mended with a string and the hope it won't fall into pieces again.
His father is carrying a black bag as they walk back to the car, where two guards are waiting for them. He knows what's inside and he forces himself not to think about it, because he'll throw up right then and there if he does.
"Good afternoon, young master," one of the guards says opening his door for him, but Harry doesn't reply.
He's eerily quiet as he sits in his seat, staring at his hands on his lap and trying to make his stomach settle down. His father gets inside as well and the car starts, making him feel even sicker.
He's a killer.
He'd believed his father would never break him, that he'd never access that part of his soul that was still pure and corrupt it beyond remedy.
But he did, and now he's just as damaged as he is.
The ride back to the Palace is silent, Harry doesn't speak. He doesn't think he'd find the words to express what he's feeling. His hands keep trembling uncontrollably, but he knows his father will get mad if he starts crying in front of the guards again, so he bites his pain back and tries to pretend he isn't hurting. He hates himself for being so upset. He has no right to hurt, no right to victimise himself.
He's a killer, and killers don't deserve commiseration.
They get back to the Palace and Harry goes straight to the roof even though it's freezing outside, leaving Carina to stare after him with even more questions than she had before.
He can't talk to her now, he can't talk to anyone without feeling so sick. He's disgusted by what he's done. He doesn't know if he wants to forget it all or think about it a thousand times over just to punish himself.
When the sun sets and it gets too cold even for him, he walks inside again. Little does he know, though, that the torture that has been set up for him isn't over yet.
He goes to his bedroom, the only room with no windows in the upper floors. He used to share a room with Carina, but his father said he's a man now, so he needs to learn to sleep in the most complete darkness. He hates it. It makes him feel trapped, but there isn't room to argue with his father. If he wants him to spend the night alone in a room with no windows, then he'll do that.
He steps inside and turns on the light, jolting when he hears the door close violently behind him. There's the clinking of keys, and by the time he tries to open it, it doesn't budge. It's locked.
He turns around in panic, and that's when he sees it.
The game he killed earlier that afternoon is on his bed, a knife next to it. It takes all he has not to retch at the sight of it. Why would he torture him like that?
"Let me out!" He screams, banging on the door and trying the handle, his breath faster and faster and his heart beating so violently in his chest that he thinks it'll fail.
"Skin it, and I will."
Harry pauses. "What?"
"Skin it," his father repeats, "get it ready to be brought to the cook for dinner. I'll let you out only if you do that."
"I can't," Harry chokes out. "Please let me out."
"You need to get over this childish fear of yours, Harry," his father says, fake understanding in his voice. "You'll be president one day, and there will be no pity, no kindness. You'll have to fight to survive because everyone will look for a way to take everything you have away from you and kill you. You have to be strong and powerful, not act like a scared child that can't even go hunting with his father. The hare is dead, now skin it and we'll cook it for dinner. It's an easy task, everyone could do it."
"I don't want to," Harry cries out.
"Don't be weak," the man on the other side chides him. "You're a Styles. You're the son of the president and you too will be one when you're old enough. It takes a man that fears nothing to run a country, Harry. Become that man."
He hears the steps back away, and just like that he's alone. He dares to glance at his bed, but his stomach churns and threatens to spill the contents of his lunch on the floor.
He cuddles up next to the door and hides his head between his knees, hoping someone will come save him.
He doesn't know how long it's been when someone knocks on the door again.
"Harry? Are you here?"
Carina.
"Please let me out," he pleads her, but she sighs.
"I can't, dad took the key. I missed you at dinner, mom didn't say anything though. Dad says he won't let you have food until you do what he told you to," she murmurs fast. "Please do it, Harry. I'm worried for you."
"I can't," he whispers.
"You can. He says he'll keep you in there for a week if he has to. Please, Harry. I'll try to change his mind, but I don't think I'll be able to."
She walks away, and he's alone again.
He lowers his head again, wishing he was somewhere else. Some hours go by, and the lack of light coming from under the door tells him his sister must've gone to sleep. She always keeps the light on in the corridor when she's awake, it's a habit she took on to make sure some light enters his room at night.
He's hungry now, but he knows nobody will listen to him if he begs and cries. His father won't let him out, and he believes him. He's capable of letting him die in that very room if he doesn't do what he's told.
Stop acting like a child, he scolds himself. He's being ridiculous. People hunt and skin animals all the time. It's normal, it's the process behind every dinner he's ever eaten.
He stands up, his legs are shaking. He nears the bed and hesitantly takes the knife. He can do what his father asked him to. He sees the reflection of his green eyes on the blade, and he has to look away.
This isn't him. He isn't this person his father wants to turn him into. This says nothing about who he truly is.
He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes.
The process takes well over an hour, because he keeps stopping to put some distance between that cursed bed and him not to pass out from the disgust and disappointment he feels in himself. He has to keep reminding himself that he's better than that, but by the time he's done he doesn't even believe his own thoughts anymore.
He chokes back a cry, nausea coming over him.
He drops the knife and pukes on the floor, right on top of his expensive carpet.
He runs to the door and bangs on it again and again, screaming that he's done, begging whoever can hear him to let him go. But it's now late at night, and nobody is around to help.
He falls to the ground and the room gets blurry, and all of a sudden he can't breathe. His hands are red and there are crimson marks on the door as well, and he's shaking so badly that his muscles scream in pain.
He's always hated the darkness. There's nothing that he despises more than not being able to see. But in that moment, he runs to it like an old friend and turns off the light. If he can't see it, he can pretend it isn't there.
He curls up in a corner of the room and cries for hours.
Harry's eyes shoot open and he gasps at the darkness of the room.
He scrambles to turn on his bedside lamp, his hands trembling violently, and he can only properly breathe again when the golden light illuminates his bedroom at the Palace.
He sits up and hides his face in his hands, taking some deep breaths to calm himself down before he can freak out even more. He hasn't had a nightmare like that in weeks, and it has left him shaken.
Harry knows there isn't a chance he'll manage to go back to sleep, so he stands up and walks to the en-suite bathroom, stripping off his clothes and entering the shower.
He turns it on and freezing cold water hits his body before it gets warmer, but he welcomes it all the same. He feels dirty, as if that blood was still on his hands. He thinks it's ridiculous that he's so affected by that, and he lets out a dark chuckle at his own idiocy. He's killed many people since then, and yet those stupid memories are the ones to haunt him. The scars his heart received while it was still beating are the ones that ache the most; the ones he desperately tried to mend but was never truly able to.
He scrubs his body clean harshly, not stopping until his skin is irritated and red, and then slowly sinks to the bottom of the shower, curling up in a ball and letting the water drops trail down his body.
When his fingertips are pruning he gets out and dries up his body with a towel before walking back into his bedroom, his body on autopilot. He puts on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and ditches the bed to sit on the floor, the simple sight of it making him feel sick.
"Open the windows," he murmurs, but the system picks it up anyway and raises the blinds, letting the fluorescent lights of Northfair come into the room.
Harry crawls closer to the glass and leans his forehead on it, letting the sight of his beautiful city ease the restlessness in his body.
It hasn't snowed in years.
He stays there until the sun comes up, and only then he stands up and stretches the muscles of his back before walking to his closet.
He doesn't call for anyone, still too stressed to be able to act like he normally does, and gets dressed on his own, taking his time to choose which suit he wants to wear. They're all black and he doubts anyone would notice the difference, but he chooses his favourite one and a white dress shirt with thin light coloured stripes, in hopes it'll pick his mood up throughout the day.
He checks himself out in the mirror to make sure the suit is looking perfect on him, and then goes into the bathroom and covers up the dark circles under his eyes with concealer.
When he's absolutely sure he looks like he always does, he gets out of his rooms, ignoring the way people move out of his way as he goes to his office.
His father was right, being the president truly is a job that requires no kindness nor pity. Something broke inside of him when he first wore those clothes and the wound festered, letting darkness seep into his heart.
He's not the boy he once was; he won't be him ever again. But he isn't like his father either. He learnt to be much, much worse. The hunter is too small of a role for him. Every role is too small for him, because he is the puppet master and the only one that controls every aspect of the world.
He surpasses Evie as he walks into his office.
"Have someone bring me a coffee in my studio," he tells her before going inside and entering the studio from the door that connects it to the office.
He turns on one of the lights and sits on the dark red armchair, letting the mild darkness soothe the residual nervousness weighing down on his bones.
After some minutes Evie walks in and puts a coffee cup on the table before going out again.
He stands up and drinks it fast, humming to himself as he takes a crystal glass and pours some strawberry whiskey in it to fill the silence that's starting to make him uneasy. He doesn't pause to think of the reason behind his choice before drinking it, letting the alcohol burn down his throat, the sweet aftertaste bringing him peace.
He resists the urge to get absolutely smashed, knowing it'll do nothing but make him more vulnerable, and stays there until he feels calm, lingering in the feeling for a moment before walking back into his office.
He steps out to let Evie know he's finally ready to take on the day.
"Have someone bring me the report from two days ago," he instructs her, not missing his opportunity to graze Lark's arm before going back inside.
She jumps when he touches her unexpectedly, and he can't keep a dark smirk from curving his lips.
"Sir? I was hoping I could talk to you about something," Lark says standing up, and he nods in the direction of his office.
She walks inside quickly, her heels tapping on the marble floor, and he closes the door, tilting his head as he glances at her.
She's standing in the middle of his office in a dove grey suit, a bit lost and a bit nervous. She's pretty, he thinks, and he immediately freaks out internally when he realises it.
"Can I go out in the city tomorrow afternoon?" She asks, seeming to be a little tense. He isn't surprised, considering the last few times they were alone in a room they ended up all over each other.
He normally would ask more about it, but he's still drained by the nightmare and lack of sleep, so he decides to let it go for this once. "I see you've made a habit of asking me to do things Evie could easily do for you," he comments. "I'll let the lower floors know."
She relaxes. "Thank you so much, Harry."
"Is that all?"
Lark nods. "I'll go, I'm sure you have things to do."
She rushes towards the door, and even though he doesn't really, he doesn't stop her, his unwanted thought about her making him uneasy.
That's the last thing he needs.
He closes the door and walks to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the skyline of his city, letting his gaze travel over the buildings and bright advertisements, an entrancing mosaic of a thousand colours. He's always found solace in the beauty of Northfair, the only one that has always been there for him, the only one that will never leave him.
His home.
You earned it, Harry, he tells himself. You earned it all.
Double update? Surprise. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you for the 80k reads on Interlude. x
Miki