Flat 51

“Harry?” I whispered as he hung up the phone. I came from behind, as he’d sent me out of the room, and placed my hands on his back in some desperate way of comfort. I shuddered as I felt the way his body was trembling beneath my touch, but not with desire or disgust. I shuddered with fear. This was not the shaking of weak hurt. This was the violence of unbridled fury. And that scared the hell out of me.

I screamed when he growled and suddenly jettisoned his phone at the wall, sending it straight through. He chased after it and began to beat the drywall until his fists were bloody. He screamed and kicked and punched and tore at it with a dead rage I’d never seen. I felt frozen. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. I could barely breathe.

“NO! NO! NO!” he repeated over and over as he destroyed the gray wall.
He kept going for ages until I saw tears streaming down his cheeks. He was weeping, slowly losing strength as the violent sobs ripped through his bleeding body. Through my own tears I saw him lean his open palms against the mutilated wall, gasping for breath between the heaving cries of pain. My heart tore in two to see this. Why? Why was he hurting so badly? Why wouldn’t he let me in the room for the phone call? I’d heard him whisper a name: Zayn, when the phone rang. I had seen his hand tremble when he reached for it. Then he sent me out.

But now his eyes turned to me.

“H-Harry, please, s-stop, I… it’ll be ok. You’ll be fi-”

“Don’t tell me that.” His voice was like the hiss of a snake poised to kill, soft, but deadly. His eyes, oh shit, his eyes. I swear on my life they were glowing. “DON’T FUCKING TALK TO ME! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! YOU’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND!” he screamed, making me cry out. I recoiled a few steps, ignoring the flash of guilt that washed through his eyes, but quickly disappeared. Suddenly he pushed up and literally shoved me out of the way, practically sprinting down the stairs.

I could do nothing but sit where I’d fallen and wonder. Cry. Shake.

I finally came down from his room two hours later. I’d waited for him to come back. But he didn’t. I found him in the backyard, drunk off his ass. There were cans everywhere, and now he was leaned against a tree with a bottle of whiskey. I didn’t want to talk to him, but I wanted to make it better. I just didn’t know what to do.

“Go awaaaayyyy, Emilyyy,” he slurred, gesturing with the bottle. I blinked back a few tears, but continued to his side. He took a long swig and lolled his head back against the tree. “What th-hell’d I fucking say? I don’t wanna talk t’you.” I ignored his comments and slid my hand into his empty one. He stared. He stared at our locked fingers for an eternity with no expression. Then he brought his eyes to mine and squinted, tilting his head to the side. “What’re you doing?” he asked. I managed a small smile, his silly behavior helping a bit.

“Trying to make you forget for a while.” Suddenly the corners of his mouth curved into a smirk.

“You know what would really help me forget?” I tensed. What was he… “I want to touch yoooouuuu, Emily. I wanna make you feel goooood. Let me make you feel good. Dammmmmit, I wanna make you twist and-and writhe beneath me. I wanna-,” he continued, detailing every little thing he wanted from me in his inebriated state. He told me where he wanted to touch me. He told me where he wanted to be touch. But then he actually started touching me.

“H-Harry, stop it,” I muttered gently, pulling away a bit. I didn’t want this. Not when he was drunk. Not like this.

“Do you ever stop fucking talking? Just let me love you,” he mumbled as his hands slid up my shirt. No. Not. Like. This.

“Harry, stop!” I cried out, pushing away with everything I had. He laughed deeply but wouldn’t quit. I was trapped. He was stronger than me. He turned around and pushed me against the tree hard. Pain shot up my arms as he gripped them, sloppily kissing my face, my hair. “No! Stop! Please!” But he didn’t. He kept on kissing and touching and ignoring the tears streaming down my face. I cried as I felt his left hand drop the bottle and slide down into the waistband of my khaki shorts.

“Harry!” Shouted Louis as he ran toward us. “Take your fucking hands off her right now!” Lou grabbed Harry’s shoulder and ripped him away, giving me a chance to escape. I ran behind Louis and gripped his t-shirt, terrified of what Harry would do. I knew his strength. He took it out on a wall two hours ago. He growled and stalked up to Lou, taking a drunken swing that was easily dodged. “You’re drunk, Harry. Stop before I decide to hit you back.”

“Well what the hell’ve I got t’lose now? You’ve taken my girl. She’s fucking scared of me. And Zayn’s gone, so I haven’t got shit going for me. Go ahead. Punch me. Hit my right in the face. See if I fucking care.”

“Fine,” Louis mumbled. Then he swung his fist, catching Harry straight in the jaw. Harry collapsed instantly. “You ok?” I was asked. I nodded, too numb to speak. Harry had tried to force me. After we’d been so happy just hours ago. My mind snapped together and suddenly it was flooded with concern.

“L-Louis, who’s Zayn?” I demanded as he threw Harry over his shoulder and carried him inside. It was silent until we settled Harry in his bed and turned out the lights, heading down the stairs and hitting the couch.

“I… I don’t… know if I can get it out,” he muttered, tears gathering in his eyes. I took his hand, and he took a deep breath. “Um, Harry… he had it rougher than most. His dad’s some bigwig out in America, doing who knows what, and he, his mum, and his sister were abandoned in a small town called Holmes Chapel. We met him there, me and Zayn, along with two other lads. When… when his mum and sister got in the car accident… when they, um… Well, we all supported him. We took care of him when he was like that.” He gestured behind him, indicating the recent episode. “He moved in with Zayn’s family since he was a minor. They became closer than any of us were to him. But three years ago, Zayn was diagnosed with terminal cancer in his brain. That’s when Harry left. That’s when he stopped communicating with all of us. I don’t know what he did in that time. None of us did, but Zayn. Harry would drop by to see him in the hospital twice a week and talk to him. But he stopped coming when Zayn didn’t remember him anymore. Sometimes I’d see him standing across the parking lot watching us leave. But he never spoke to us. He only recently started contacting me again, when he needed flatmate references. I missed the bastard, that’s for sure, so when he started telling me about you, I was bloody thrilled. That’s why I wanted you two to come. Because he needed somebody to listen to him. To pay attention to him for longer than it takes to have sex.”

“Louis, I don’t just want to have sex with him. Honestly, we haven’t even gone there yet. I just think he needs a friend, that’s all. I mean, he has you guys, but he needs somebody who won’t look at him with pity, you know? I want to be that. I want to be the one he can laugh with and cry with and be angry at and then kiss up after.”

“Damn, he doesn’t deserve you,” Louis mumbled, squeezing my hand with a smile.

“Now, though, I don't know. Louis, what if he doesn't want... Me? What if he only wants physical me?"

"He doesn't, I swear it."

"I don't know. I guess I'll take a nap and sleep on it, and talk to him on the plane later." I really didn't know. I felt something strange and strong for Harry, and I wanted it so desperately to be love. I wanted him to love me back. I wanted to be intimate with him, but not because he was desperate to 'get laid'. He was my world right now, and he'd just put a big dent in it. I know, he was drunk, and that's the reason I didn't walk out right then and there. I'd seen my share of smashed idiots take it out on their girls, and I knew the didn't mean a word they said. But when it happened to me, it felt so different. It hurt so bad.

Notes

I rewrote this like fourteen thousand five hundred fifty-two times.