You'd think the day after Valentine's Day I'd be over the moon as I wake up with my boyfriend, but instead I rejected his pleads of a night together due to insatiably boiling blood. My heart thrashing so feverishly against my chest and cheeks burning bright red from knuckle whitening anger.

Sam came over yesterday night with a Nickelback CD, which I skillfully pretended to be grateful for. He seemed so timid when he gave it to me, telling me that he thought I liked their work but after the encounter he'd had at the store he was unsure. When I asked him what had happened I already knew by the first word that slipped from his lips.

"Harry."

I tried my best to remain as unemotional as I could but it was in vain. Pacing back and forth, forth and back, I kept muttering out curses between shouting about how infuriated I was. Sam tried to get me to relax and told me that we should just relax for the rest of the day.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" He asks downhearted.

I shook my head and pressed my lips to his, his arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me close, "You're perfect."

He asked to spend the night but I was so angry that I had to tell him no. It could have been the first night we'd spent together and a day that we could have reminisced on but instead it was a night full of regret on my part.

"It'll be fun," he pleaded, "I won't make you watch any cheesy movies or silly music that you hate."

I smiled as a short snort slipped from my nose, "I wish I could."

Kindness, his language, was left unheard. Caring, his gift, was left unreceived.

I awoke this morning before the sun had spilled light onto the landscape. My veins pumping with scorching lava for blood and my head pounding with tension the intensity of grinding of fault lines. I tossed the covers off my body and onto the ground as I stomped around the house getting ready to lash out.

The loud clanging of a mug onto the counter, the sinister snap at a burned finger on the stove, a churtled curse at an emptied box of cereal.

Indignation, my language, the only thing heard. Selfishness, my weakness, sent his way.

I throw a white collared shirt on and white pants and tug on a green top that lets the collar poke through the neckline. I douse myself in gold jewelry and push my feet into simple white sneakers.

I scratch my teeth harshly with the brush and splash my face with ice cold water in an attempt to pull out any uncontrollable ferocity.

Cold water, rain. Rain, thunderstorms. Thunderstorms, thunder and lightning. Thunder, tumultuous. Lightninging, striking.

I throw my tote over my shoulder--my notebook, keys, and phone bouncing against the canvas walls of the bag. I hustle my way through the door and shuffle down the steps onto the melting iced-over sidewalk.

The changing seasons normally bring a wide grin but now only make me queasy. Nauseous that the beauty of metamorphosis is soured by the frigidity of my temperament.

I don't even know what I'm going to say to him once I see him, I'm just going to let it all pour out and burn his skin with shamelessly immature frustration. His skin will be left scolded and blistered, leaving scars that will never fade and be reminders of his inexcusable mistake.

I nearly sprint across the road once I get to the corner and find my way to the door of Dorthea's. I check the time on my phone to see that there is still three minutes until they open. I peek around the window, looking past the glare of the window to see Dorthea and George shuffling around the store placing away scattered records and long lost CDs, dusting off forgotten instruments and reorganizing different items of musical perifialia.

I knock lightly on the door and see George take a few strides to unlock and pull the door open. His warm smile greets me and allows my tensed face to relax into a small closed-lipped smile. I can hear Dorthea continue to put things away as she sings out sweet songs of the past.

"Good morning Phoebe Mae," his gruff voice stammers out, "What can I help you with?"

Dorthea comes to stand behind George, her hands placed gingerly onto his shoulder to peek past him and give me a gentle wave.

"Is Harry down here?" I ask as I poke my head through the door.

He shakes his head, "Not yet, he's never ready for work on time."

"I'm sure he'll be down here soon," Dorthea adds.

I nod my head as my eyes roll, "Okay, thank you."

"Would you like to come inside, we just got some new records that have been hidden in the back specifically for you." He suggests with a shrug.

I shake my head with a nejectingly, "Maybe another time, thank you George."

"Are you sure dear?" Dorthea asks politely, her worn voice coated with kindness, "There are some beauties that you'd really like."

I shake my head with scrunched up lips, "No, thank you Dorthea. That's very kind of you both. I'll be back in soon to check them all out."

He nods and closes the door as I walk quickly towards the side of the building. I step up the stairs with the rusted structure creaking beneath my feet as I ascend them. My breath leaves remnants of heat in the cold air.

Fog clouding the clarity of calm, of peace.

I get to the platform and step up to the door, my hand forming a fist that pounds harshly. The scratched and discolored door cracking beneath my bruising knuckles.

"Harry, open the fucking door, now." I snap out with fire incinerating my throat.

Each knock forces skin to splinter and splash with contusions that will force my later loggings to become acidic and painstaking.

I continue knocking, adding my other fist into the relentless rapping against the door. My knuckles aching harshly and the skin becoming raw.

"Open the door, asshole."

I finally hear the click of the lock disengaging and the sounds of metal grinding to twist the handle. In that moment, my hands fall from the door and immediately my fingers are picking at the rawed edges on my knuckles. I wait what feels like a millennium before the door is opened and a disheveled Harry is pulled into view.

His bed head--curls thrown messily across his forehead and rustled around carelessly. His eyes--sleepily blinking but his brows furrowed and jaw sharpened. His body--barren and strong.

Alcohol.

The air fills with liquor, the strong stench singing off the neurons in my brain.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sunshine? Finally decided I'm worthy of your presence?" He rasps out with a deeply sleep filled voice, lowly growled out.

Alcohol.

A trail of miasma follows him everywhere, how haven't I noticed it before.

I push past him into the apartment, seeing a mess scattered everywhere. Clothes and take-out boxes serving as an obstacle course to the couch. I step over and into the free spaces on the ground until I'm standing in front of the red vinyl chair.

"Sunshine, what are you doing here?" He groans out as he comes to stand by me.

Alcohol.

Inconsiderate actions--his default, how have I never seen it.

I push him down so he sits onto the couch, his face contouring into one of anger and confusion, "You are a piece of shit, you know that. I can't believe that you'd do what you did yesterday."

He brushes his hair from his eyes and rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Alcohol.

Sweet sentences--his hidden treasure, it was so obvious.

"Sam. I'm talking about how you treated Sam yesterday. All he was doing was getting a CD and all you could do was be cruel to him." I scream out, my voice cracking from the strength of the emotion filling it.

He leans forwards, his eyes falling to his feet and his head shaking, "That's what this is about? All of this because I was telling him the truth, something you're too afraid to do."

Alcohol.

Distractingly blunt--his biggest character flaw and yet his greatest strength, it was screaming at me.

My fists pull tighter at my sides as my tote falls from my shoulder and hits the ground. My breath is lost as my chest grows so tight I'm unable to allow oxygen to cycle through my system. "Too afraid?"

He stands up and pushes on my shoulders to send me stumbling back a few steps, "You heard me, too afraid. You won't tell him anything you think will upset him and refuse to be honest with yourself. You're pathetically afraid of honesty."

Alcohol.

Defensive denial--his unwrangled truth, it was a flashing neon sign.

"And what about you? You're so honest, right?" I ask with brutal sarcasm digging into him.

He laughs from the absurdity he perceives, "He isn't this savior that you believe him to be."

Alcohol.

Misplaced judgement--his sharpest sword, it was staring back at me.

"He is perfect, he's kind and smart and he cares about me." I bark back at him, pointing a finger at his chest.

He holds his fists out in front of him from obvious exasperation, "He's not going to save you. He won't."

Alcohol.

Unasked for opinions--his quickest shot, it was punching me in the gut.

"I don't need saving, I need someone I can depend on. He's perfect, he's dependable." I choke out with an irate cadence.

He throws his hands up to his head and crashes his palms over his face, dragging them down and letting out a low groan. "Stop saying he's perfect."

Alcohol.

Alcoholism--his hidden battle.

"He is perfect." I yelp out.

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me slightly, his tone stern and voice so loud it causes a ringing in my ears, "For someone else, he's perfect for someone else. Can't you see it Phoebe, you're tormenting yourself."

Alcohol.

Alcoholic--his title shrouded in guilt.

I drop my head and short, uneven breaths escape my nose, my lungs inhaling and deflating in an attempt to keep my panicked body alive, "He's the guy that any girl would be lucky to have. He's the one I should want."

He lets go of my shoulder and grabs the sides of my face, his bloodshot eyes bringing out the green in them. His gaze tears through me, "But you don't, he's keeping you in the dark." The hot breath that fans across my face fills my senses with the strong scent of hours old drunkenness.

Alcohol.

His torture of choice.

I grab his hands and throw them off my face, stepping back to create space between us. My eyes narrow as I step around with a vulnerability that doesn't allow me to stay in one place,"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You're not Sunshine anymore. He's keeping you in the dark. You're hidden behind the clouds."

Alcohol.

His punishment.

I let out a shocked gasp and bend down to pick up my tote. My heart hammering so hard it feels as though it will give out. I shuffle back through to the door, kicking clothes and styrofoam out of my way as I pass.

I reach for the door handle and turn and give him a glossed over glare, "If he's the clouds, you're a thunderstorm." I slam the door behind me and run down the stairs, slipping on the slick slate and catching myself on the handrail.

"Son of a bitch," I wince out as a sharp pain radiates through my shoulder.

I strain out a stifled cry from the harsh pain and I continue down the stairs as I grip onto my elbow to stabilize my immobilized shoulder. I hear a door slam and thunderous steps shout out through the air.

"Phoebe." His air bitter.

Alcohol.

His escape.

I turn up to him with glass daring to break the windowsill of my lashes as I stare up at him, every action I take forces a whimper to leak through my tightly pressed lips in pain.

"Am I really a thunderstorm?" His timbre becomes timid as he continues to stumble down the steps.

Alcohol.

His guilt.

I glance up at him through spilling showers that stain my cheeks with saline, "Why do you always reek of alcohol?"

"Excuse me?" His voice raises again.

I collect myself as best I can and grip my now numbingly pained arm, "Why do you always have the sour smell of insobriety spilling out of your pores?"

"I- I don't know what you're talking about?" He snaps out defensively.

I shake my head, "I didn't really notice it at first, but now I do. That's why you're a thunderstorm. You want me to be your sunshine. I can't, you'll drag me into an abyss. You always reek of alcohol."

I finish my descent down the stairs and hurry off, his words of defense becoming inaudible as I run across the street to get to Darcy's. I need help.

I kick the door to get her attention, choking on sobs that threaten to shred my throat.

She rushes to the door, concern covering her usually airy expression.

I'm helped inside.

I'm sat on the seat as she calls Teddy, as she calls Nick, as she calls Dorthea.

I'm fidgeting on the sool as George rushes over.

I'm hysterical as he drives me to the hospital.

I'm numb on the drive home.

Alcohol.

He's left helpless--again.

He's hopeless as he sits in that darkened, dirty apartment--again.

He's tipping back the bottle--again.

He's riddled with guilt--again.

He's alone--again.