Daddy issues || h.s

4.1

"Did you, did you, did you?" The words echoed in his heart. "Did he, did he, did he?" "Did she, did she, did she?" Did she tell him? Did he listen? Why didn't she tell him? Why didn't he listen?

His screams were trapped in the car as he drove down the roads that had felt like home just hours before. For every breath he took, another petal fell from the dying flowers in his chest, and for every beat of his bleeding heart, another star exploded in his mind. The inside of his mind was one big supernova, planets and galaxies imploding on themselves, their silence booming in his ears louder than any sound he had ever heard.

Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks, but the wells in his eves had been dried up in the summer sun, and now he was dying of thirst. She could not be gone, she had to be here somewhere, she had to.

"I will come find you," he said. "I will come find you. I will find you. I will find you. I will. I will. I will." He repeated the words to himself over and over again, screaming them, whispering them, crying them, mouthing them. And as his voice broke down into fragments of melting snow, he looked for her, he searched for her, but he didn't find her. Because he looked for her everywhere, while she was nowhere.

Rust grew on the iron wings of the day, and soon they would be so old they could no longer carry on. The dying sun found its rest behind the mountaintops, decorating the sky with yellow, red and pink flowers in honour of its own funeral, and Harry found himself surrounded by the dried paint she had once admired.

The old paintings lined the walls, the floors and the tables. Easels were scattered around the room, and colours were splattered across the floor; red, blue and yellow dots mapping out his brushstrokes, and finally tears fell from his eyes. Blue rivers of sorrow clung to his cheekbones, and though water finally poured from his soul, it was too late; the flowers were already dead.

Because in the middle of the room, there stood an old easel, the wood dry and dead, with a blank canvas resting upon it. At its base, two cans of paint were placed in a row, one of them yellow, the other one black. That was the moment he knew there would be no "Come find me," because a paintbrush dipped its bristles into one of them, and it was not the yellow one.

The rivers running down his cheeks turned black as ink, and his skin was stained as he ran out of the studio. He could not breathe, he could not think, he was slowly choking on the dried up petals that flew around in his lungs.

Screams scratched at his throat with red nails, digging so deep into his flesh, he could feel crimson blood run into his lungs, but no matter how much he wanted to, he could not let them go. Because black silk ribbons were tied around their feet, pulling them down, down, down, deep inside his heart.

A man was stood a couple of meters away, a spray can resting in his hand, blue paint staining his fingers. His golden eyes landed on Harry, whose silent sobs rung through the empty street as he sat down on the sidewalk. The paint stained stranger put down his can, and walked towards the curly haired boy, sitting down beside him.

"Girl or boy?" He asked, leaving blue stains on his clothes as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"What?" Harry asked, his green eyes meeting the gilded eyes of the black haired boy in front of him. His lips shook as they wrapped around the words, and the question was so see through, he did not know whether the stranger could hear him or not.

"Girl or boy?" The stranger repeated his question, the silvery tones of his voice in stark contrast to his eyes.

"Girl." Harry said, his voice as rusty as the last hours of the day. He waited for the golden boy beside of him to say another word, but he never did, and so Harry never got to hear the silvery voice again. In stead, the blue fingered boy handed him a cigarette.

Smoke had never before gushed onto his lungs, but as the tip of the white cylinder lit up in the darkening street, he let the flowers in his heart burn up, their dried up petals getting consumed by flames in the matter of seconds. He never coughed, he ever grimaced, he just let them burn, knowing no amount of water would ever be able to extinguish the dark flames.

The timbers in his lungs still glowed as he entered the ice-house that had once been decorated in flowers, and he hoped they would keep him warm as he dove into the snowstorm in the kitchen.

Her back was turned to him, and he could hear something sizzling in the frying pan in front of her. She didn't turn her head as he entered; she just kept on cooking, snowflakes landing in her hair.

"So, did you find her?" She asked, still not turning to look at him. Her words were flat, but within the tones of her voice, he could hear the dark green melody of hope.

"No," he answered, the coal in his chest glowing weaker and weaker for every breath he took.

"I told you she was gone, didn't i?" She said, the green tones of her voice darkening until they were completely black.

"Why do you even care about her? You're not her family, so you're not obliged to."

"Oh shut up," he said, the last of the sparks shooting up from his chest as he closed the distance between them and grabbed her hips, hoping she couldn't taste the ash on his lips.