Coming Home

Water is a deadly thing.

Water is always going to outnumber anything. It never comes alone and it never leaves without one prisoner. Water comes in various shapes and sizes. You have rain, lakes, oceans, puddles, ice.

Sadness is like water.

It's deadly and can outnumber anything. It never comes alone, and it always takes a prisoner. It comes in various ways. Sometimes people. Sometimes life situations. Being sad can drown you quicker than quick sand and it will not be sorry. It won't discriminate.

It's a deadly thing. Possibly worse than a speeding bullet.

"Martha wants us to clear your flat," Ben is speaking slow. Attentive almost.

He doesn't know what happened between Harry and me, and I don't feel like telling him, because I don't know what happened either. So I ran. I called their game off and ran. I didn't look back. I couldn't, not when I knew Louis would be starring back disappointed and let down.

Harry was a hole other thing. Harry had been asleep when I left. All curled in and slow breaths. I almost couldn't. But if I hadn't then I'd be there living a life that would only last for another seven days.

I couldn't handle that. So I made Ben go back and pack up my things. He told me this wasn't the answer, that I was only delaying the inevitable. That I was too sore to move and that this would not be the appropriate way to thank Harry for saving me from Russell (who seems to have gone somewhere or evaporated for a bit because he'll be back, he always comes back) At that I scoffed and kept going. I barely made it past Louis and Eleanor alive. Seeing Niall and Liam was like a flash back. Having to be the one to leave this time is ironic and cruel.

Harry's been calling. Texting. He's even sent an email (I applaud him for knowing I didn't change it) I want laugh. But not the 'oh it's very funny and I'm happy' kind of laugh, but the 'I've lost my mind and now I'm possibly deranged and dangerous' kind of laugh. Where it doesn't come from my joy but rather from the suffocation I'm feeling.

"Babe, we have to clear out your flat. You don't use it anymore and someone wants it."

"Okay. Go clean it?"

He blinks and let's out a deep sigh, "that's not what I meant."

With half a shrug I scratch my scalp, "yeah." I desperately want to change the subject. I'd rather talk about me running away then have to bring up my old apartment. I'll even discus details about Harry and me. I'll go that far.

"It's been five months," and that can't be true. So much time couldn't have passed, if the damn pain still feels fresh and I can still hear the phone ringing and my parents screaming.

"When is Caleb coming home?" I've asked this question six times in the last five minuets. My mom chuckles and my dad squeezes my arm.

"In a few. Relax Presley, he'll be here." Harry left three and half months ago. That's still not enough time to relax. It's not enough time to do anything but cry.

"Fine," I say standing and brushing off my pants, "I'm going to the bathroom."

My parents wanted me to visit after Harry left. They said they missed me and now that Harry and them were gone, and with Ben visiting his family, they said it'd be best if I came home for a month to see them and spend time with Caleb while he's home from school. It sounds innocent. Completely believable. And I do believe they miss me. I miss them too, but the truth is still lurking under their words. They want me home so they can keep an eye on me. So I won't have another break down (and I've only had two. I call that progress and incredible luck) they also know Ben's not their to watch over me and my constant need to drink-- that is not a problem because I can stop at any time. I just don't want to-- so it's not a problem.

I walk back and sit on the floor. "Before Caleb gets here can we talk?" My dad stands from his chair and sits, crossed legged next to me. He wraps his arm over my shoulder and my body tilts to his side, "who am I?"

I look up with questioning eyes, "my dad?"

In my eyes that was true. Russell (a descendant from satan himself and the actual owner of the sperm from which I blossomed from) was only a stranger. A stranger I would give anything not to remember. Steve was my step dad and Caleb's dad. He was nice and he always brought me a present when he came over. He carried me and made my fly like I was an airplane. One time he bought me a giant balloon in the shape of a bear, that I proceeded to name Becker.

To this day Becker is my favorite thing.

"Damn right I am," he says proudly. His hand runs down my arm as my mom looks down fondly.

"And who am I?"

I turn to look at her and make a face as she waits for my answer, "my mom?" I sigh.

She nods with a small smirk, "and Caleb?"

"I'm crazy, mom, not stupid."

"Presley Jude Summers," she says in her best mom voice, "answer the question. Who's Caleb?"

I roll my eyes opening my mouth to answer when dad cuts me off, "don't you roll your eyes," he scolds, slapping my arm, "is that polite?"

"No," I murmur dryly.

"So don't do it," he says with a squeeze to my limb, "now, who's Caleb?"

"My brother," I give in, "and grandma is my grandma and grandad is my grandad. And this is our floor and this is the couch, and that's my sanity-- no wait, I lost that."

"Oh you are so your father's daughter," my mom accuses, narrowing her eyes at my dad and while it can't be by blood I know deep down its because this is the man who's raised me.

My dad smirks and shakes his head, "so all of us? What are we?"

"My family," I sigh. I know where this is going and I'm not sure I like it all that much, "I know what you're doing and I'm fine."

"Don't think we're not aware of your drinking and your money issues."

"I'm taking care of it."

"I'm not saying you're not. I'm worried that you're heading down the wrong--"

The phone interrupts him and I could not be more grateful. He stands and walks towards the phone ringing in the kitchen as my mom stretches her legs and bends toward me on the floor.

"I know it's been hard, my love, but you've got to take a sad song and make it better." She winks and then jumps when there's a loud crash in the kitchen. My mom gasps and is out of her chair so fast, you'd think it was on fire.

She runs and all I hear while I'm getting up is a scream. A horrified and painful scream.

I rush towards the loud noises and I stop when I see my mom on the floor sobbing as my dad clutches the phone to his chest, tears falling silently as he shakes his head and mumbles, "Caleb" over and over.

My mom is my mom and my dad is my dad. Caleb is my brother and he won't be coming him tonight.

"You know I can't go there."

"Why? He never actually lived there, just his things. You have to collect them if you want them."

"I don't know if I want them," there is so much that comes with his stuff. It's not just stuff, it's accepting the fact that I don't have a brother anymore.

Ben sighs and places his hand on my shoulder, "your things are there too."

"I can buy more things."

"Not with your credit," he grins, "I know your parents will want to keep some of his things, they just can't retrieve them because they're busy with work and being old. Presley, at least go and see your place."

I know what it looks like. It was a simple two bedroom, one bathroom apartment. Barley enough room for one person, let alone a nineteen year old and her twenty-five year old brother. I don't need to remember how it was built.

"No."

"No?"

"No," I repeat adamant. Ben gives me a shocked look, followed by a smirk and shrug.

"Alright," he says shaking his hair and fixing the hem on his jacket, "I've got to head down to the café. I'll be back in thirty minutes after I've finished with the bank statements." There's a wicked gleam in his eye and I know by the way he's let this go that I haven't heard the end of it.

Ben is persistent and sometimes I wish he'd leave me alone. Like, now. Especially now. He says his goodbye, packs a snack and walks out smug and eerie.

Twenty minuets have passed and I think I've been crying for half of them. I can feel my eyes swollen and they itch. I feel puffy and somber. I'm tired. Drowsy, and sore. My body aches and I can't drink tea because Conor wants me back on the pills.

It's safe to say my life has hit bellow rock bottom. Six levels bellow.

I'm curled on the couch because I refuse to go to my room, in fear that I may never leave it again. A very sad and uneventful True Life marathons is flicking on. It's the one where they start dating their best friend's ex's. I've seen it four times and every time I want to hit them for even speaking to their best friend's ex-flings. Like, where did they think that would end up working?

And as Taylor (she's actually very nice, just fell in love with Henry because she's lonely) is about to confess to Amanda her relationship, some one is pounding on my door. I have half a mind to pretend I'm not here and force myself to sleep (which seems almost impossible) but they obviously won't go away or they're not getting the idea, that I don't want to answer my door.

I huff and stretch my arms up. My limbs crack and I think I've aged fifty years. My shoes are on and I can't remember the last time I took them off, which can't be good or healthy. But they don't smell so that's a plus.

I tread towards the door, rolling my eyes at the persistence of the rude, unwanted visitor. My chest constricts when I open it and Harry's face comes into view. I don't have time to actually see his face, because his hands have captured my head and his mouth has slotted perfectly against mine.

And it's nice and worng. It's everything it should and shouldn't be.

He pulls back and bends down, scoops me over his shoulder, and mumbles, "I'm so mad at you right now," he closes my door and walks down the hallway and out the back door, where I can see his car on and ready. It doesn't hurt as bad as it would've a day ago. It just. Aches.

A lot aches right now.

Notes

I got a second tattoo. I'm so cool. I have like three friends. Yass. Xx