Harry’s P.O.V

I’m such a terrible person.

I’m a horrible boyfriend.

And I’m just a fucking dick in general.

Why the hell would I do that? Why would I propose a bet, make fun of something that she was genuinely serious about, and that she wanted me to be genuinely serious about? What kind of low-life moron did that? Me, apparently.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit.

I leaned against the door to my bedroom, listening to her muffled sobs and cries, wincing every time she let out a particularly loud sniffle. It made me want to rush back into my room, wrap my arms around her, and make passionate love to her, repeating over and over that I would never do such a thing and that I loved her so, so much.

But she probably hated me now.

God, why was I such a fuck-up? Why did I have to screw up every good thing in my life? I actually thought that I’d been doing well with Isabelle, managing my temper, all of the fucked-up things within me, but of course, I couldn’t keep myself under control. And I cracked.

Tonight, I finally cracked.

I wondered what she thought of my proposal. Would she accept it, would she be mad, would she leave me? I was assuming the third one. I couldn’t make her happy, I always managed to find some way to ruin it, but I never knew how to fix it.

Isabelle was the first girl I’d been serious about for a long time, I wanted my whole life to be with her, but how could that play out if I was always a part of that life, always screwing shit up? I was finally beginning to believe that I was good for her, too.

I put my head in my hands, sliding down against the door, feeling cold. I was only dressed in my boxers after all. I desperately wanted to know her reaction. The curiosity ate at me. But from the way she was crying, I knew—I knew—that she hated the concept of slowing down just as much as I did. She just had this twisted idea that it would somehow work out for us, as if we could keep our hands off of each other.

Was she fucking mental?

“Fuck!” I yelled, and I heard her cries grow in volume, and I immediately felt even worse, if that was possible. I was a piece of rubbish. Who the fuck prides themselves, even smiles at their girlfriend when she cries, especially when it’s because of them? Only massive fuck-ups, like me, of course.

I sprinted downstairs, debating on just screwing it and sleeping on the couch. Even the stairs seemed sinister, reminding me that with every step I took, I was getting further and further away from the girl I loved.

I entered the lounge and stared at the couch, deciding to sleep there.

It happened so quickly, but before I knew it, I had whipped my whole body around, using my weight to throw a punch to the wall.

My fist came in contact with the plaster, and I let out a chain of colourful curse words, my fist colliding repeatedly with the plaster. It hurt like a motherfucking son of a bitch, but I didn’t give a flying shit.

Eventually, I stopped, shooting a glance at my fist, which was still tightly clenched. Honestly, I was surprised I hadn’t broken anything. My knuckles were bloody and red, the blood smeared all over my hand.

I swore again and fell back onto the couch, curling up into a fetus position, cradling my right hand, and before I knew it, I was asleep.

***
January 18th

“Oh my fucking God!” someone shrieked.

I winced; squeezing my eyes shut tightly, the only feeling I was able to register being the spiking in my temples and the pain in my fist. For a moment, I wondered what the hell was going on before I remembered the events of last night, and my eyes snapped open.

Isabelle was standing in front of the couch, dressed in her bandeau and pajama pants, her hair messy and strayed. I looked up at her face, and guilt washed over me again like a giant tsunami. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks bloated and salt-stained, and it seemed as though her mouth had developed an eternal quiver, always prepared to begin breaking down.

She had been crying, yet she still looked so fucking beautiful.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes with my left hand, the pain in my right still throbbing, “Hi,” I rasped, stretching my arms out and cringing when my elbow cracked.

She didn’t say anything; she simply lashed out to grab my right hand, making me hiss. For a moment, I thought she’d swear at me and tell me to suck it up, but no, she brought it up to her face and inspected the dry blood littering my knuckles.

There was a beat of silence until she kissed it lightly, “Did you break anything?” she asked in such a low voice, and it was almost inaudible.

I was shocked at how different her reaction was, contrary to what I’d been expecting. I’m pretty sure I just sat there, dumbfounded for a moment, before finding my voice.

“Um,” I cleared my throat, “No, I don’t think so.”

She nodded quietly, still not meeting my gaze. I looked away, my Adam’s apple bobbing, feeling so terrible about every word that had passed my lips the previous night.

There was another uncomfortable silence, only filled with the action of her inspecting my hand, the touch of her small fingers and the fact that her skin against mine was setting my flesh on fire.

Finally, she dropped my hand, but didn’t let go, rather letting our hands lay limp in the space in front of us, “Let’s go clean that up,” she whispered, looking away.

“Oh,” I rasped, “Okay.”

She nodded hesitantly before pulling me up, and we made our way, hand in hand into the kitchen. We both leaned against the counter, and she tentatively held my hand under the faucet, reaching out to turn it on.

I hissed as cold water splashed onto my knuckles, “Fuck,” I cursed.

“Sorry,” she whispered, staring at the ground. Her hands worked around mine, scrubbing furiously to chip the dry blood off, leaving only a reddish tint behind.

Finally, when it was clean, she turned the faucet off and grabbed a nearby rag, bringing my hand away from the sink and caressing it in the cloth, wiping off any excess water.

I vaguely noticed that she was still drying my hand, even though it was no longer wet. She cleared her throat, looking away, suddenly fascinated with the knobs on the sink.

I pursed my lips. Where could I begin? ‘I’m sorry, I’m such a fucker’? ‘Please tell me you still love me’?

Everything was travelling through my mind at the speed of sound.

“Belle, I—,” I began, but she cut me off by saying quietly, “I’ll do it.”

What the fuck was she talking about? I almost took a step back, “W-what?”

“I said I’ll do it,” she mumbled, gazing down at the ground and finally dropping my hand, “I’ll participate in the bet.”

Without another word, she turned around and walked briskly out of the kitchen, leaving me a confused mess behind her. I hadn’t actually wanted to slow down, or to even start this. It had been my anger talking, and now I finally checked out where my fucking big-ass mouth had landed me.

These thoughts rushed through my head as I watched her exit the kitchen, almost in slow motion. I didn’t fail to wince when I heard her let out a small, strangled sob.

“Fuck Isabelle!” I yelled out, and I heard her emit a small sob, which had—no doubt—not been intended for me to hear. I sprinted after her, but she must’ve heard my loud footsteps, because she shrieked brokenly and ran towards the stairs, trying to run from me.

When she got to the top of the stairs, I was only halfway up the flight. Swearing loudly, I skipped the steps by three, until I was at the top, and ran after her. She was heading towards the bathroom, and without thinking, I lashed out, my fingers wrapping around her wrist. She let out a strangled cry as I whipped her around, making her head come in contact with my bare chest. Her hair was soft, and she collapsed in my arms, crying into my neck.

I wrapped my arms around her, never wanting to let go. She was crying to me about me. I had caused this, and she’d been forced to resort to the last option, which was running back to the person who had hurt her. I was too selfish to let go though.

“I know baby,” I whispered into her hair, pushing it delicately behind her ear. She sobbed and sniffled, and I felt the skin of my pectoral muscles dampening with her tears.

“I know,” I said brokenly, emitting a small sob. We just stood in that position, for God knows how long. I felt my heart weighing heavy in my chest, scared that it would bring me down to the floor, and I’d drag her with me. I was going to go to hell, I know I was.

Eventually, she pulled back, but her tears still hadn’t stopped. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, more salty drops slipping down her face, and whispered shakily, “I need to go.”

I immediately panicked. The last time we’d been in a situation like this, it had ended with her abandoning me at my mum’s house, all the way back in Holmes Chapel.

I remembered the feeling: it was as though someone had stabbed a blade into my heart, twisted it, and pulled it back out, just to watch me bleed. I had a feeling that it would only be a sensation of tenfold that now.

“What do you mean?” I said, my breathing becoming shallow.

She shook her head, “I just need to be alone Harry,” her voice cracked as she uttered my name, rubbing the silver bracelet I’d gotten her on her wrist.

We stared at each other for a few moments before she said, “I’ll be in your room,” and without another word, she turned around, shuffling into my bedroom and closing it. I heard the faint sound of a lock click.

I was frozen in place. I didn’t know what the hell to feel. On one hand, I was happy, so happy that she wasn’t leaving; she just needed space, enough that my room could supply. On the other hand, I just wished she’d stop with this insanity and let me in so that we could work out our problems.

My ears were ringing.

My eyes burned, trying to hold back tears.

I swear to God, I was going to crumple to the floor and start crying. This was worse than any other fight we’d ever had, because we were in such close proximity, yet we couldn’t be more distant from each other

I was confused, so completely confused, different emotions nipping at me and trying to cloud over others, making my head hurt. I felt as though I was on fire, that same sense of panic, unable to think straight and simply waiting for the worst to happen. The horrifying thing was that the worst hadn’t happened yet.

And I was a sitting duck waiting to be shot.

God, what could I do?

Nothing.

I missed her.

I missed her terribly already. It was my fault, all my fault. I should’ve just respected her wishes and agreed to slow down. But no, I had to make things interesting. And look at what I had done. My relationship was practically ruined.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I was such a horrible boyfriend; I loved this girl, but I was so selfish, never taking her needs into consideration, which only left me shocked and stunned at how she’d finally fought back, finally decided she wanted to do something about it. I couldn’t do anything, unable to comprehend what had exactly happened to us.

So I just stood there, my feet glued to the floor, gasping for air like a fish that has been out of water for too long, a flurry of emotions causing a hurricane and twister to battle inside of me all at once.

Notes

Okay, Harry is officially a jackass. What do you think? Comments? Suggestions? Death threats? Let me know! I want feedback :)

Onto another note: GUYS!!! THANKS SO FUCKING MUCH FOR VOTING FOR ME FOR THE FANFICTION AWARDS!!! Holy shit, it really means so much to me! I'm surprised that I got nominated in the categories that I did. It's all thanks to you guys! Stay awesome, don't ever change ;)

That awkward moment when you start laughing at the most inappropriate time...*cough* funeral *cough*

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