SONG(s) FOR CHAPTER: 

♬ Let It Hurt by Rascal Flatts ♬ 

♬ Battleships by Daughtry ♬  

CHAPTER 13

♕ HARRY STYLES ♕

WITH A LUMP in my throat, I could only stare at her. Her words seemed clear when they fled her lips but blurred and jumbled when they entered my ears.

Doctor Miles had said records and prescriptions for people like me were confidential. That only he and my parents—or in my case, legal guardian—were allowed to see them. Had he lied about that? When he came to my hospital room the first time he brought it up, he said he had a trustworthy friend do the snooping and—oh God.

My eyes locked on hers again, and it became all too much overwhelming. If Grace had been that trustworthy friend, what other terrible things did she know about me? Had she done extreme snooping or had she only skimmed the surface?

What a huge embarrassment. All of it. Every time I tried to leave that horrid stuff behind, somehow it found me. But now Grace had found it and that was even worse. She must think I'm a basket case, an absolute lunatic.

I realized my hands were trembling when I dropped my smoothie, the contents spilling all over the table top. My mind was racing and I was doing that weird thing where I blinked rapidly, as if it would help push everything away. I needed air, but I was already outside.

Grace was trying to use the few napkins we had to clean up my smoothie while I dragged my hands furiously through my hair, darting to my feet. The movement was so abrupt, my chair fell backwards, catching other people's attention.

God, I was suffocating.

I hadn't had an episode like this in a long while, where everything rushed back to me so quickly. I tried to detach myself from the past the best I could, but it hovered over me like a large storm cloud, drowning me every chance it got. It was hard to block out the screaming and the cries and the gunshots when you were the only one that could hear them.

A migraine was coming on, and it was hitting me fast, just like everything else. I hadn't noticed I'd walked two blocks from the cafe already until I stepped off the sidewalk to lean against a tree.

Plates breaking.

Mom crying.

Dad screaming.

The two sickening gunshots.

All of it was like a broken record—excruciatingly endless.

There was a small hand on my shoulder, no doubt Grace's. My forehead was pressing against the tree hard enough for the bark to draw a little blood. I hadn't realized it was because I was dragging my head back and forth across it, as if trying to scrape away the memories.

Of all times, the attack had to happen now. When things with Grace were going good. When things were starting to get back on track. Of course I had to crumble. Of course I had to ruin everything, just like I always did.

Hot tears were rolling down my cheeks when I felt Grace move closer to me. I hated crying. I hated having an episode. I hated feeling and looking so weak and vulnerable. Like I was something fragile. I refused to be something fragile.

"Harry, oh my God, what do I need to do?" She sounded so panicked, so worried. She was trying to move me away from the tree, no doubt so I would stop scratching my forehead from the bark.

"Make it stop," I mumbled, but my voice was strained and hoarse. "Please."

"I'm taking you to my apartment. God, I need to call a taxi..." She kept rambling.

Somehow, I managed to be alert enough to reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the driver's card from the day Grace went to the concert. Almost a week ago. Maybe he would come, maybe he wouldn't.

I didn't remember falling to my knees, my hands still clutching my head. I must've looked like an escaped mental patient to everyone nearby.

Glass breaking.

Mom's screams.

Dad's abuse.

Both the gunshots.

"Please!" I yelled. "Make it stop!"

★ ☆★ ☆

A groan left my lips. I twisted my body, an aching in my head and in my neck. There were footsteps approaching quickly before the couch dipped slightly by my knees, a cold hand pressing to my cheek.

I opened my eyes, humiliation soaking in when they met Grace's. But she didn't look revolted or amused—she looked worried. I managed to bring my hand up over hers, sighing before closing my eyes again. I fell back asleep with the ghost of her touch on my face.

I dreamed about that day. The day my father finally fell over the edge. Except it hadn't been my father holding the gun—it had been me. And I had aimed it at him, my mother, and my sister. Even in my dream, I could see how emotionless my face had been.

My father's wasn't even emotionless when he bestowed the event. He had been a crying, screaming mess. Shouting sentences that didn't make sense. Shouting threats that scared everyone because we knew they were more than angry threats—they had been promises.

And he had kept them by pulling the trigger.

When I woke again, I hadn't jolted like they do in movies. I had merely opened my eyes and looked around, confused for a moment. This time being awake, I noticed I wasn't on a couch. I was in a bed, and I could only assume it was Grace's.

Huffing as I sat up, I held my head in my hands for a long moment. I didn't want Grace to ask questions, though she must have plenty. No one can witness something like that without having questions. I just didn't want to answer them. It would pile on to the humiliation of it all.

Nevertheless, though, I pushed the duvet away and stood anyways. There was still a light throbbing in my head and a cramping in my neck, but I tried to shake them both away before peeking out the door.

I came face to face with Grace, nearly running into her.

She let out a relieved sigh. "Phew. You're finally awake. You really were beginning to scare me to no end." She held up a cup of ice water. "I figured you'd be thirsty."

I tried to smile, but it didn't work.

After taking a sip of the cold beverage, Grace grabbed my wrist and gently tugged me into what I assumed was the living room. She sat on the couch, patting the cushion next to her. I knew what that meant—the talk. The What-The-Hell-Is-Wrong-With-You talk.

I pursed my lips, inhaled sharply, and sat down, preparing myself for the bombardment of questions.

They never came.

Instead, Grace tossed me a gentle smile and grabbed the television remote. "Want to see what movies are on?"

I gave her a baffled look, but didn't want to push my luck, so I nodded uncertainly.

"Okay, there's... Princess Bride, The Way Way Back, Mall Cop... Oh! How about Pirates of the Caribbean? I need my Johnny Depp fix."

Grace sat on the couch sideways in the corner, one leg bent and propped against the back cushions with the other folded beneath her. She played with the ends of her hair while she watched movies. I noticed that before about her, but she was doing it now too.

She caught my eye and gave me another soft smile before returning her attention to the movie. I loved to watch her eyes brighten at comical parts, a grin daring to break out onto her face.

But thirty minutes into the movie, my confusion was getting the better of me, and I hated myself for not just leaving the subject alone.

"Grace," I murmured during a commercial break. "Why aren't you asking me about what happened?"

A frown tugged her lips downwards before a small sigh left her. She looked over at me. "Because I didn't think you'd want me to. I know you trust me, Harry, so if you want to tell me, then I'll listen. But I won't push you about it."

I bit my bottom lip, glancing down at my hands.

"I was really worried, though," she added quietly. "You scared the hell out of me, actually."

I laughed some and it was a relief when Grace did too. "Sorry," was all I said.

The movie came back on. I rubbed my forehead only to run my fingers over vague scratch marks. Frowning, it was a repeated cycle of me realizing my actual craziness. I still couldn't help but to ask why. Why me?

Grace got up to go to the bathroom when the movie was over. We had sat in a comfortable silence while the movie played out, aside from the few moments Grace giggled aloud. But the silence was beginning to irritate me and the nervous glances she kept tossing my way only made me squirm.

"No," I muttered when she sat back down.

She raised her eyebrows. "What?"

I picked at my fingers, not daring to look up at her. "I haven't been taking them."

She was quiet for a moment before a small sigh left her lips. "Why not?" she asked softly, like speaking to a child. God, people always talk to me like I could break any second. I hate it.

I shrugged. "I guess I just don't want to."

She snorted, almost laughed. "That's not very good judgement for reasoning."

I shrugged again and she turned off the television. I felt her move to where she was facing me, her legs crossed like she was ready to listen to some long and sappy speech. I didn't want to prepare a long and sappy speech. Hell, I hardly wanted to look at her after so much embarrassment from today.

"I'm ready to listen if you want to talk," she whispered and I could feel her eyes on me.

I sucked in a breath. I knew I trusted Grace. With every fiber in my body, I did. She's (obviously) seen me at my worse, she's seen me at my best, and she's stayed through all of them. She probably still would've stayed if it hadn't been for me.

If I had a dollar for every time I regretted that moment, I would constantly be collecting money. Like an endless cycle, a broken record, that remorse stuck with me.

"I used to have them all the time," I finally answered, my tone low and I was starting to shake again. Was I really going to tell her everything I wanted to? Probably not. But I felt like I should try. She deserved it, in the least.

"Panic attacks?"

I scoffed, mostly to myself. "More like psychotic episodes, don't you think?"

One glance and I could see Grace's face fall, but I couldn't decipher the pity from the genuine concern. Maybe they always mixed together and I just overlooked one. They're two polar opposites and yet somehow always come hand-in-hand.

"Harry..."

"I hadn't had one for a long time until today," I continued, refusing to feel belittled by her worried stare. "That time you came over after Aria and I was throwing a fit, that was the most recent. That one wasn't even that bad. Neither was the one today."

She looked stunned. "How much worse?" she whispered, like she were afraid to know the answer.

I was twisting my hands together now, anxious all over again. "Bad," I mumbled. "Like... sometimes hospital admittance bad."

A thousand different questions and emotions flamed behind her brown eyes, but she stayed quiet with her lips pressed together. She truly was listening. She hadn't even looked the least bit disgusted with me yet. How could she sit beside a psycho so calmly? I almost asked her.

Instead, I said, "How much did you see about me?" I hated myself for sounding so vulnerable. I tended to hate myself a lot, lately.

"I skimmed most of it," she said in a low tone, matching my own. "I already felt bad for looking, so I didn't want to purposely snoop, I guess you could say. I was only supposed to find the... mental worries."

I ran a hand through my hair. "Sorry." I wasn't even sure what I was apologizing for. Maybe for being such a demented human being, or maybe just for everything. I still owed Grace every apology in the world.

But she laughed. "There's nothing to be sorry about, Harry. Anyone who witnessed something like you did would be bound to have problems." She placed her hand on mine, warmth coursing through me. "But that's what the medicine is for, you know? Not to make you feel crazy—to feel better."

"They don't work," I said, but I wasn't even sure of that. I had mostly just convinced myself they didn't. Truth be told, I never took them long enough to know the truth of their effects.

She tilted her head. "Can I ask you something or do you still not want to cross a personal line?"

She'd already seen the terrible sides of me. What else was there to lose?

 Her, my mind reminded me. You could lose her all over again.

"I don't think you'd want answers," I told her.

She gave me a long look. "Harry, if you think I'm going to act any different towards you just because you have some things going on upstairs—" She pointed to her head, tapping her temple with a small smile on her lips "—then you really don't know me very well."

I sighed, nodding slowly. "All right, but you've been warned." To anyone, that sounded like an exaggeration. To me, it sounded like an understatement.

"When I was looking," she started slowly, "there were some things on there about your previous foster parents. When you went to a therapist—I'm not sure which one—he had written down that you hit the mother. I don't think that's true but..." She raised an eyebrow, waiting cautiously.

I almost laughed in relief. If her questions were like this, then they'd be easy to answer. Hopefully, this was as personal as she would get.

"I didn't hit her," I said. "Not intentionally, anyways. It was when I would have an episode and, well, I would kind of forget where I was. That's how bad they used to be. I would think I was back in that house, you know. With my dad in front of me..." I squirmed a little. I wasn't supposed to elaborate so much. I made myself stop.

Grace nodded, though, then asked another question. "Is that why the other families gave you up? Because of your episodes?" Jesus, she was speaking in the voice again. Speaking to a child.

I grimaced. "I guess. No one tended to elaborate on why they didn't want a psychopath in their house."

She sighed. "You're not a psychopath, Harry."

"You don't know the half of it."

She huffed, refusing to lose this battle. "Have you murdered someone?"

"What? No."

"Have you stolen a little boy's ice cream?"

"Grace."

"All I'm saying is," she said, raising her hands, "by definition, a psychopath is a mentally unstable—"

"Which I am."

"—aggressive person," she finished, giving me a hard stare. "And, yeah, you have a pretty violent job, but you don't beat people for fun, Harry. You don't hold a knife to someone's throat just because it's amusing to you. In fact, the only time I've seen you in a fight outside of the ring, is when Chase was provoking you. And he deserved it."

It was my turn to give her a long look. How could she keep defending me like that? I knew I was crazy. The doctors and therapists and foster care system knew I was crazy. Why was it so easy for Grace to oppose the idea?

Still seeing my internal dispute, she asked, "Do you like violence?"

I frowned. "No." 

Which was true. Yeah, it was kind of a contradictory considering the sport I'd taken to, but I really was against violence. At least my so-called job was with a bunch of other people who signed up for it. I wasn't just knocking the daylights out of an innocent bystander.

In truth, the whole ordeal made no sense to me. Why I had taken up UFC in the first place. Hurt by Grace leaving, bored with sanity—who knows. Nothing I ever did seemed to make much sense.

She smiled, almost victoriously. "See. You're not a psychopath. You're just a... dude in distress."

I laughed then. "Nice wording."

She chuckled. "I try my best. I didn't think you'd appreciate being called a damsel, so."

I smiled. I shouldn't have been, but I was a little shocked at how easy it had been talking to Grace. The jitters had vanished almost instantly when I realized her true curiosity. 

She wanted to understand. She wanted to help. She wanted to just be there.

And that's something you didn't find these days in a lot of people.

I would be stupid if I wasn't grateful, but I am. God, I'm so grateful for her. If anything, my gratitude and overall feelings for her have intensified. I could feel her, even a few feet away, trying to pick up the pieces and glue them back together. Trying to be that missing clue to solve the puzzle.

Looking into her eyes again, I found us there two years ago, sitting at the park while she told me ridiculous puns. And then that damned goose had come along. That goose had been the straw that broke the camel's back, the last little shove where I finally succumbed in my adoration for Grace. Where I was finally submerged in it.

Her eyes—they were still so bright. Such an easy thing to get lost in. Her lips—they were still so desirable. Such an easy thing to finally melt a person under the pressured. I lost myself staring at her.

She seemed to be lost, herself, staring at me.

I didn't hesitate this time, closing the gap between us, her soft lips the only thing keeping me from drowning in insanity.

(pardon mistakes—I've got a nuisance of a cousin over x)