10 | Hit the SOS (Part Two)

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SÁBADO
12:12 AM

Dahlia Gray

I almost swore.

I didn't think I was going to see him today, especially at the crack of midnight. I thought it was safe—I assumed it was. For the past couple of years, my bench has always been the spot when I could go to for some peace and quiet, to have a moment of solitude. It was always my place.

Now, when I need it the most, it's consumed with him.

My skin is slick with tears streaming down my face, my cheeks were wet and the whip of the wind wasn't doing it any more justice. It was just burning.

I had stormed out of my house without a second thought—my phone, my inhaler and my earbuds were all left behind. The only thing I left with was my jacket, and it was purely out of luck that I didn't take it off.

"I—" I want to be alone. I wanted to scream at him, but the words were clogged in my throat like a bile.

Harlow stares at me with emotions etched into his features, but my vision was too blurry to decipher them. I didn't know he was at the bench; it wasn't until I stepped closer that I made out the end of the cigarette, lit with an orange flame.

I rub my eyes consistently, bringing the backs of my palms to my face and drying off the tears before more could flow. Nothing worked. Everything just continued in a cycle and there were no breaks. I was crying, wiping and repeating.

I don't know where else to go. I stand there, a couple feet away from Harlow as he has since picked himself off the seat and stood. He doesn't make a move towards me but he doesn't leave either.

Why can't he just leave?

I can't go home. Not like this. Not right now. I would get a lecture on crying, on how strong girls don't shed tears and on how I can't take a joke. It was a simple mistake, I could hear him saying; she was the one being disrespectful.

Because it hurt me, dad.

"Can you leave?!" I scream, using up all my energy to squeeze out a couple of measly words. I didn't think it had any impact, my voice croaked at the end and my heart was hammering inside my chest with such intensity, I swore I felt like I was going to die.

I drop one hand onto my heart, resting it against my ribcage as I inhale a couple of short breaths. The rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum, and I calm myself as I check to make sure.

One, two, three.

I'm alive.

I don't want to be.

"I—" I just want to be alone. I wanted to say that. I wanted to explicitly tell him how I feel, but the words cut short and the only thing that fell was me.

I drop to my knees, my jeans hitting the small patches of leaves resting underneath my feet as I cover my eyes. I'm bawling and howling, and I'm in so much pain, I didn't know what I wanted to do.

There's that thought—that one intrusive thought that hangs at the back of my head, screaming some ill-sighted intentions.

I wanted to listen.

"Dahlia," I hear footsteps quickly approaching, but my vision is blurred with tears and my hands cover the rest of it. I could barely hear the muffles of my own name, my wails and chokes were the only prominent sound I heard.

I feel someone's hands clasp around mine.

"Please—" Please leave me alone. I'm choking. My oxygen intakes were interrupted by cries and I felt my chest constricting. I couldn't even finish a goddamn sentence. I can't do anything right. I can't even be a good daughter.

"Dahlia," I sense the panic in his voice, the same voice that usually boasts with apathy—that never bids a care to the world. For a second, it seemed like he cared. I think I'm hallucinating. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

I don't reply, because I knew I couldn't. Instead, I push him off. I try, at least. In a weak attempt, I try to shove his hands off of mine, hoping the small act would show him I didn't need him. That he needed to leave me alone.

Instead, he tightened his fingers around mine—refusing to be ripped away. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight him. My throat didn't allow such cause.

"I..." My eyes fill with a rerun of tears, and I haul in a deep breath before I croak the next few words. "I thought I told you to find another bench."

You reek like him, I wanted to add. You smell exactly like my father and I hate it. I hate this. I hate him—I hate you.

But nothing spoke.

"I just—" I just want to be alone. My hands were trembling and my body was shaking. I was freezing. I was burning.

"Dahlia," he spoke again, with such delicacy that I could've sworn wasn't in him. I wasn't even sure he could feel such emotions. "I need you to tell me what happened."

I shake my head, the only nonverbal response I could come up with. I didn't want to relive it. I didn't want to talk about it. Why can't anybody understand that I just want to be alone?

He comes closer and I pull back in protest, my hands still in his hold. The smell of cigarettes lingering on his body was becoming overwhelming, and my senses could no longer bear them. I turn my head to the side, in tears, coughing out a fit.

He picks this up.

Harlow drops his touch from mine and I feel an instant relief. My chest rises and falls, and my tears stain my skin, but at least those were only two problems out of three. I may be crying, I may be bawling on the dirt floor with little oxygen coming into my system, but at least I didn't have to smell cigarettes anymore.

There was a moment of total silence. The whisking of the wind was the only source of sound and my coughs were heard occasionally in spite of nature. I choke on my breathing, and my lungs hitch in my throat, gasping for air. I thought I stopped crying, I thought I was good for a second.

Just in time for the memories to roll back.

This time, I'm trying to hold it in. I press my lips into a tight line, wiping down my tears before they flood, and I clench down my jaw so tight that I thought my teeth were going to shatter.

Anything to stop crying.

In my glossy vision, I see Harlow leaning closer. He gives a small distance between us—not touching me—and he looks at me straight in the eyes. He doesn't let the gaze break.

"I'm taking you back to my house," he whispers softly, his eyes following my expression as it morphs into absolute distress.

I shake my head wildly, my black hair flinging into my face, sticking onto my cheeks from the wetness. "No," I croak.

"It's fucking cold outside and you're fucking shivering and I'm pretty sure if you don't freeze to death, you'll die from hypothermia."

He's swearing and his words were so vicious. In a normal situation, I would've wince knowing they were directed at me—but this time, they held a tenderness to them. Something more caring, more concern. It wasn't out of spite.

I don't say anything, my gaze dropping from his blue eyes. I look to the floor, my vision begins to unblur and I could see the pile I'm in. Dead leaves latching onto my jeans, my wool sweater picking up broken pieces. I am disgusting.

So, in silence, I hold out my hand.

Harlow lets out a sigh, pulling himself to his feet as he reaches out and takes my hand. He pulls me up with ease, almost tripping me with his force, but he catches me around the waist.

I inhale a deep breath, my chest trembling from the intake. I could smell the cigarette still lingering on his body, easing under my nostrils. I wanted to pull out at that moment.

"Come on," he mumbles, his voice small as he guides me towards his house without another protest. His arm still wrapped around my waist, my hands holding onto them to steady myself.

Harlow does all the work, pulling me and keeping me by his side as we walk. My body is weak, I'm still trembling, and I'm pretty sure I would collapse if he let go. I think he knows this too, because just as I clutch onto him harder, his grip on me tightens.

The walk wasn't far, and before I knew it, we fall before the door of a big two-story house. It didn't look old—but it didn't look new either. I couldn't pick up much of its architecture design, but all I knew was we're no longer at the park and I'm not at home.

Harlow uses his other hand to reach into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys as he drives one into the lock and twists. The door makes a sound when it creaks open and the house is inviting, the heater immediately brazing our skin the moment we step in.

"Where's Presley?!" He releases a demand, shaking the whole house awake. I grip onto his arm, about to turn to him and tell him it's okay, and don't disturb anyone when it was too late.

People exit from their rooms, the upstairs rumbling with creaking doors and departing footsteps. On the bottom level came out two adults—a couple, I presume.

The woman is female, looking distinctly Filipino. The male was of tan, olive skin, similar to hers with a darker undertone. He had tattoos sprawled all over his arms, covered in ink and decorations I never seen before. They looked like tribal tattoos.

"Harlow," the woman whispers-yells, her brown eyes pinned to him as her dyed blonde hair is pulled back and slightly messy. She looks like she just woke up. "What is this?"

"Where's Presley?" He demands, his voice not open for arguments. His eyes search for Presley, from the stairs where a couple of two kids exit from their room, rubbing their eyes, accompanied by a girl who looks around my age.

The door behind the couple swings open and in walks Presley—his hair slightly damp and he wrapped a towel around his shoulders. "What's up—oh, shit, crying girl," he looks straight at me, probably noticing the stain of tears trailing down my cheeks or the puffiness of my eyes. "Crying girl alert."

And he spins around, and leaves.

"What the fuck?" Harlow mumbles under his breath, his voice etched with irritation and he spoke a couple more words that became indistinguishable to the ear. His gaze to the floor.

I turn back to the floor, seeing how all of their eyes are pinned on me with a questioning look, trying to understand the depth of the situation. My skin felt like it was burning, and I choked back on saying words because I knew it was going to make me cry.

I turn to Harlow, seeing how his brows are pulled together in thought. I almost built the courage to tell him to drop it, to let it go and let me go back to my bench and cry my heart out there. I'll figure everything else later.

Instead, he doesn't say anything as he ascends up the stairs. It almost feels like he was carrying me—because I was resisting—as he takes me up the steps, passing the little girl and the girl with a curious look etched on her face.

I didn't know what to tell her either.

Harlow pulls me into a room and slams the door behind him—probably harder than he intended—and he finally releases me.

I press my lips together to form a thin line, my eyes picking up the signs of the shared room. It has two twin-mattress beds on two different sides. One side occupied trophies, textbooks organized in a neat stack and a self-made bed. On the other holds a trash bag, sheets pushed to the end of the bed and a classic novel that looks like something I would read in English Lit.

I don't know why I'm here.

I don't know what's going on.

I look down at my hands, studying them as they tremble visibly. I clench down my hands into fists and release, thinking that would do the trick, but everything remains the same. I couldn't stop it.

I hear him pacing. "I don't know what the fuck to do."

"I," I choke, looking back around at the room, not meeting his eyes. I suddenly felt the urge to go home and crawl into my bed, wanting to sleep. Then, I remember the reason why I wasn't at home and the cause of the outbreak that led up to that event.

I feel tears warming up.

"I want to leave," I mumble, the words falling weak and feeble. I touch my cheeks, feeling heat rushing back into my circulation. I wasn't crying—yet. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't say anything. The footsteps stops and I could feel the burn of his stare on me. I don't look up. "You didn't do anything wrong."

I know. Yet, I feel the whole world on my shoulders, every little mistake weighing on my conscience. I feel like I'm drowning.

The door whips open and both our heads turn to the source of the sound, the clanking of the knob hits the wall.

Presley walks through the door, the towel has since been abandoned and instead, he holds a bucket of vanilla ice cream in his hand, a couple of spoons in the other.

"What the hell, Presley? Why the fuck would you bring ice cream?" Harlow snaps, the irritation in his voice laced with dark venom. I thought Presley was going to react, but instead, he merely grins.

Presley turns his gaze to mine, meeting me with a delicate smile. He holds out the ice cream. "You want some?"

I felt like a kid, being offered ice cream to suppress the memories and sadness withering in my chest like a disease. Yet, at the idea of ice cream and the soft flavor touching my tongue, I debate on the idea.

I hold out my hands silently.

Presley approaches me with a smug look sent to Harlow, and I can see him rolling his eyes in response. The ice cream bucket came onto my hands and Presley hands me a spoon.

"Come on," Presley guides me to the other side of the room, where the bed was made and there's no wrinkle in sight. He sits me down. "Just... Stay here."

Again, I feel like a child.

Presley turns to Harlow, "what the hell did you do to her?" His voice completely changes, like a scold.

Harlow threw out his arms, "I didn't do anything!" He said, with total honesty. "I was at the park, and she came in and—she was crying!"

I swallow a spoonful of vanilla, "I'm sorry," I said softly, feeling like an intruder in their home. They were sleeping, and they were tired and were trying to get a regular night's rest when I came into the picture. When I disturbed everyone. "I'm really sorry."

I could barely swallow the ice cream. I felt like such a bother to them. Then I thought—if I didn't cry, if I didn't cause such a scene at the park, we could've avoided all of this. I could've—I don't even know. I don't know what could've happened. I can't think straight right now.

I close the bucket, feeling undeserving of this treat. Why am I even getting it anyways? For crying?

"I'm going home," no, I'm not. "I'm going back to the bench."

I stand up from the bed and drop the bucket on the floor, the spoon on top of the cap. My eyes watering. "I'm really sorry—"

"No, you're not," I felt Harlow's hand around my wrist faster than I could predict. I didn't even make a step towards the door. "Just... Just stay here for a minute."

He turns around, eyes pinned on Presley, and said something indistinguishable.

"I don't know," Presley declares, taking a quick glance at my direction. "I don't study psychology, and I don't—" He cuts himself short, a thought occurred to him. "Claudia."

Harlow drops my hand. He shakes his head, "no. Absolutely not."

"She's studying to become a therapist, she'll be better at this than we both ever will—"

"I fucking said no, Presley!" Harlow snaps, cutting his foster brother short from his sentence. Presley silence, eyes locked with Harlow. "Either you can accept that or get the fuck out of the room."

I could see Presley pulling his hands into fists, his jaw slightly sharpening. I thought he was going to give into Harlow's demands, "this isn't about you and Claudia, Harlow," Presley declares sternly. "This is about her, and whatever she's feeling. We can't help her like Claudia can."

Harlow glares at Presley, but he doesn't say anything. For a moment, he just stared at Presley with such fueling hatred, I thought Presley was going to back down. Instead, he doesn't and Harlow sighs heavily.

He turns to me, his eyes meeting my gaze, and for a second they soften. I watch him, my brows wrinkle in confusion—at him, at this—and he took it as a sign of some sort. He looks back to Presley.

"Fine,"

Presley doesn't say anything. He takes a turn out the door and exits, leaving Harlow and me in a room with each other.

I look at him, confusion written on my face at this turn of the night. I don't understand why he's helping me. Why he's trying to do everything he can to fix my issues. It's not like it's going to work: tomorrow night, I'll be back at home, dealing with the same problems. No solution is permanent.

Except leaving.

"Why were you crying?" Harlow asks in the state of our silence.

I drop my gaze, to the floor. I realize I'm still wearing shoes, and it's in the house, something that is banned in my household. I fidget, can't stand being still and curiously poke the laces of my shoes. Wondering what to do now.

"Dahlia."

I'm snapped back into reality and I look back at him, him awaiting the answers.

"I, um," since the clearing of my tears, I could see myself thinking straighter. My heart wasn't hammering in my chest and my emotions weren't all over the place like they were before. I could finally breathe. Think. Possibly talk. "It's not that big of a deal."

"Yes, the fuck it is." He snaps, empathizing with his swear. "You were bawling in the middle of the park, dropped to your fucking knees and you couldn't even talk. What do you mean it's not that big of a deal?"

I wince at his use of language. Everything that comes out of his mouth is so blunt and sharp. It almost made me cry. I inhale sharply. "Can you... Can you not yell at me?"

Especially not right now. Not while I'm still sensitive.

He sees the look in my eyes. He breaks down his front, and for a split moment, he looks guilty. He doesn't say anything else.

Presley soon returns with the same girl from the stairs, looking over at us. The moment she steps inside the room, her eyes immediately lock with mine. Her eyes swept with concern, brown eyes running up and down on me.

"This," Presley declares, placing a hand on her shoulder, "is Claudia. Claudia, this is..." He trails off, waiting for me to finish the greeting.

I look to Harlow.

He doesn't say anything.

"Dahlia," I finish weakly, offering a small wave.

"Hi, Dahlia," she greets herself, walking towards me as Presley's hand slips from her shoulder. He goes to the background, reproaching Harlow by his side. "Do you want to sit down?"

She gestures to the same bed I stood up moments ago, and I look down at the sheets with contentment. If I sit down, it means I'm ready to talk. If I don't, it shows I'm rude. I don't know what route to take.

I look up, for anyone's guidance, and I see Harlow open his mouth—before he closes it shut. His eyes pin on mine, and for the first time, I could read what he was trying to tell me.

Your choice.

I suck in a deep breath.

And took a seat.

Claudia smiles, and comes around and sits beside me. We both look off in the distance, where the windows are covered in blinds and darkness seeps through the slits. I don't know what to say.

"You don't know me," Claudia begins, "and I can understand if you don't want to say anything.

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