Repossession: A sequel to Recovery
Repossession: A sequel to Recovery
Author's note: *stares with Spongebob-esque smile* Hi, guys! I've missed you! I'm back to writing and reading KKBB fanfiction! By the way, it's the best fanfiction because I've never read a bad KKBB fic. Anyway, enjoy! And if you haven't read Recovery here's the link: http://kikamontanez.livejournal.com/25810.html
It's been three months since I got Harry back. Six months if you count the three he went missing. I still check the calendar once in a while-just to make sure it was really three months. It felt more like three years. I have Harry back, and I would say safe and sound, but that's not exactly accurate. I'm not sure if he'll ever be safe and sound. Not because of the fucker who kept him prisoner and did horrible things to him. He's dead, or so I'm told, but no body, no proof. A dark part of me kind of hopes he's not. He never got his chance to try and fuck with me.
In these three months, the most I've gotten back from Harry is his voice, and that hardly counts. This is the guy who narrates everything going on around him, and now he answers in short sentences, always kind of nervous and unsure about them. I've taken him to several different doctors, and I learned that a lot more had happened to him than I thought. I knew about the whipping, the drowning, the cutting, and of course, the raping.
I didn't know about the drugging until one of the medical doctors addressed it. A handful of them were used to sensitize him, I guess to make the physical contact more exciting for Bernard. A few were used to stimulate, a few more to sedate. The list went on, unfortunately, and I couldn't help but stare at Harry, who ran a hand through his hair, avoiding the doctor's face, and mine.
I also found out-after he needed stitches after an embarrassing infection, that Ken Bernard hadn't been the only thing up Harry's ass. Luckily nothing living like gerbils or something had been in that mix, but still...
Psychatrists let me in on some of the dark basement stories too. Harry didn't exactly come out and say what all went on when he and Ken were alone, but hypnosis is a magical kind of thing, and most of the sessions were tape-recorded. I could never see Harry, but I could always hear him over the loud hum of the recorder, sounding scared and ashamed. Knife play was a huge kink for Bernard, as was gun play, and I couldn't help but add visual to the audio of Harry's recount of being cut up and pistol-whipped while his tormentor got off on it.
There was more, a lot more, but I tried not to delve into it. I didn't want to be the one examining Harry with his wings pinned to the board. He'd been through enough, and he didn't need me knowing every detail to feel worse than he already did. This, of course, is all bullshit. I know why I didn't probe deeper-I'm scared too. Scared that if I know too much, I'll make Harry my own prisoner, never letting him leave the house again. Never let him leave my sight again.
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It's a Thursday evening, and a slow one at that. I'm cooking dinner and Harry is sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading one of his dog-eared Gossamer novels. The TV's on, just loud enough to give background noise.
"Food's ready," I tell him.
"Okay." He closes the book and we both go into the kitchen and sit down at the table.
"So do you remember the story?" I ask, nodding at the book he's brought with him.
He gives me a funny look and then stares at the book. "Huh?"
"The plot." I wave my hand a little. "I mean, Jesus, Harry. You've had to have those books twenty times."
Harry doesn't look right. Like I've knocked the wind out of him or something. "I've read them?"
This is dangerous territory, the memory loss. Doctors say it was the physical trauma to his head and the drowning. Psychatrists say it was the mental abuse. Probably a combination of both. Harry remembers, but he doesn't remember. He recognizes things-people, places, items, but he doesn't know how. It drives him crazy, and for some reason, makes him even more ashamed.
"It's okay," I try my best to make the whole situation light and unimportant. "I mean, now it'll be new and exciting all over again, right?"
Harry sets the book down on the table next to his plate and then pushes his plate away. I push it back and tell him to eat in my no-nonsense tone. Harry remembers something attached to that because he starts to eat.
"You're going to get through this," I tell him. "It just takes-"
"Time." Harry nods curtly. "Yah, I hear that a lot." He really does. Not just from me. Harmony, Jason, the doctors, the therapists...we all have the magic cure, that doesn't seem to be working.
"Harry..." I'm not sure what to tell him. If it were any other situation, we could banter about it. I could say mean things, he could brush them off, we could go to bed just fine and wake up in the morning and do it all over again.
Bed. Another problem. Bedtime was tricky now. After we'd gotten word that Ken Bernard was dead, Harry flipped out and could not sleep for anything. Couldn't sleep alone, I mean. He follows me around the house begging to share my bed, and the first time, I did. I mean, what the hell? It's just Harry, and he needs me. That's what I thought. He had something entirely different in mind than sleeping, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, he started kissing my neck and trying to get his hand down my pants, and I took him back to his room and told him to stay. Something about Ken being gone and the actual bed makes him a nervous wreck, and it makes me a nervous wreck now too.
I do the dishes and Harry finishes his book. It's nearly midnight when I walk around to start turning lights off. Harry watches me from the sofa, trying to look absorbed in his book, but he's never been good at that kind of thing. I finally walk over to the couch and stare at him.
"I'm going to bed," I say. "Good night, Harry."
"Perry." He starts to get up, but remembers how this goes. Night after fucking night.
"You'll be okay," I tell him. "Ken is gone, Harry. He's dead. There's nothing left."
"Please just..." He's getting that derranged, glossy-eyed look again, standing up, and wringing his hands together. He folds his lips in and then pushes forward, trying to kiss me.
"Stop," I tell him firmly, keeping him at bay. Again, in other situation (which probably wouldn't occur) I would want this. I want Harry, I do, and have for a long time, but not like this. Never like this.
"Go to your own bed," I say. "Go to sleep, and you'll be fine."
"No." He shakes his head, but I'm already moving away, my back turned to him.
I'm not really going to bed. I'm just hiding. I'm a night owl, as is Harry, but if I don't stay in my room with the door shut, I feel worse about shutting Harry out. It takes several minutes for me to finally surrender-a record actually- and I go to Harry's room just to check on him. Some nights he's actually asleep, but other times he's crying or just sitting there, shaking and scared as fuck. Either way, I hate it. It's not the Harry I know. It's not Harry Lockhart.
"Harry?" I knock on the door before taking a quick peek inside, and then open the door all the way. "Harry...!"
He's cutting himself again. Not like some teenager who thinks life's too hard because her parents are fighting and she's fat in all the wrong places, but literally hurting himself. It's part of his psychotic problem. Ken used to cut him up like a birthday cake.
"Give it to me." I say, and he does. It's sad to think this isn't the first time we've been through this. Or the second, or even third, fourth, or fifth.
I take him out of the room and to the bathroom where I doctor him up. I love taking care of Harry this way. And he loves being taken care of. That part of our life hasn't changed. Maybe the one thing that hasn't changed. He fidgets and bitches (though not as vividly as confident Harry would) and I tell him to shut up and bitch at him for getting hurt. He leans his head on the wall, propped up on the countertop, and stares at me. A stare that's so familiar that I have to pause for a second in my work. It's a nice moment, I realize, and I think he does too. He takes my face in his shaking hands and kisses me. Fuck me if I don't kiss him back, just because I'm scared that if I don't, I may never get Harry back. Never get that smarmy little rat bastard I adore, and it's all my fault because I left him alone for three months. I'm a private investigator. People go to me when the real detectives can't help them, and I couldn't even solve my own case, and that fucked Harry over, and its all my fucking fault.
We kiss all the way to his room, and I have to break us apart.
"No." I tell him, fingering his perfect lips. The lips I took that ridiculous ring out of.
"Perry..." He tries to kiss me again. "Please..." He kisses the hand that keeps him away instead.
"It's not fair to you," I tell him, being honest for the first time. It's not fair to Harry. To him, sex is necessary for survival.
"Can I please sleep in your bed?" He asks, giving a half breathy laugh. "Just to sleep, I swear."
He swears.
So far, I've broken every promise I've made to Harry. I promised Ken Bernard would never hurt him again. I broke it. I promised I would kill Ken Bernard. I broke that one too. I promised he would get better. I haven't quite broken that one, but it's starting to look more and more likely. It's about time Harry broke a promise to me.
I never thought that having sex with him would be as good as it was. I try my best to be gentle, but it's hard. He's just as dirty as I am now, and some sick part of me wants to erase all of Ken Bernard on him, so I mark him. I try to be gentle. I try to be that nurturing, soft Perry I told myself I'd be when I took Harry home from the police station, but he makes it impossible. When it's over, I tell myself to be ashamed, to get out of bed and make it better. To go away, but Harry's looking at me with this slightly embarrassed, big beaming grin on his goofy, post-cut up face, and I start to cry a little. Harry kisses me again, and I lay back down beside him, stroking his damp hair.
"Perry?" He's not whispering, exactly, but his voice is quiet and secretive.
"Yah..." I run my index finger across one of his smaller traces of a scar.
"Don't leave me, okay?"
"I won't." I hope to God I can keep this promise.
I let Harry sleep in the next morning, kissing him in several places before getting out of bed to go hit the unwanted shower and rest of the house. When I step outside just to take a deep breath and thank God or whatever for giving me one shred of hope for anything, I see trash near my porch. Rolling my eyes, pick it up, already deciding not to let something as insignifcant as paper ruin my wonderful morning. I pick it up, and it has a glossy kind of feel to it. Uncrumpling it, I start to feel cold seep through me. Each exposed piece makes me feel sicker and sicker, like putting together a puzzle of your own death.
It's Harry. He's skinny as fuck, clad only some sweatpants. His arms are bound above his head in some kind of S&M looking bindings. His lip is split and trickling blood, with that Goddamn ring in it. His bare torso is bleeding too, covered in fine slits, all different sizes. Something's wrong with his face, though. Aside from the bleeding. I squint at the photograph, and then it hits me. It's an early photo. In those eyes, I see Harry's memory. He remembers everything. He's scared and unsure of what's going to happen. I turn it over, and there's smeared sharpie.
Mine Mine Mine I always get what's MINE
I tear the photo into a million pieces and burn them with Harry's old lighter before putting them in the trashcan, double-bagging it, and putting it in the very bottom of the outside dumpster. I go back inside and wonder what I'm going to do. I knew he wasn't dead. I had always known.
To Be Continued...