sdmn one sh~i~ts

Rock Bottom /wroetobehz

words: 2379
warnings: suicide ⚠️

It's bright.

That's the first thing that crosses his mind as the blinding haze of consciousness pulls over his eyelids. It's a quick on and off, like someone is holding a strobe light to his eyes. He can't focus on it, eyes too hazy to make out anything against the brightness.

He tries blinking, though his eyes are heavy and the simple task becomes impossible. His mind spins, unable to focus.

Everything is spinning. Why is it spinning?

It takes tremendous effort to open his eyes again. The haze clears slightly, and he can make out the textures above him, the crossed lines and panelling in linear succession with the blinding lights.

It's a ceiling, his brain helpfully supplies. It's a ceiling that's moving above him, which means he must be moving. But his body is heavy. He can't feel anything.

How was he moving?

He must be lying down. There's no way he's able to move. Something is moving under him, around him. His vision hazes again, in and out like a camera trying to focus, but inevitably can't.

As his vision blurs, his hearing clears slightly. There are conversations around him, loud conversations, words he can't quite make out or understand. There's an incessant beeping in the distance, and he can't help but wince.

Turn it off.

There's a jolt, he's not sure why. He tries lifting his eyes again, odd shapes and dark splotches fading in and out of his cloudy field of vision. A slow, torturous blink clears the fog for a second, but it's long enough to see faces covered by masks, eyes full of fear, concern and shock. Their lips move. Maybe they're asking him something, but he can't make out the words. It's too cloudy.

It's the hand that grasps his that's the first thing to bring him back to his body. It feels like a livewire, shocking him and pulsing life back into his lungs. There's warmth from it that seeps into him, heating his cold body. But there's also a sharp chill, like metal, caressing the spaces between his fingers. The feeling is familiar, nostalgic, and somehow he can connect who the hand belongs to immediately.

He squeezes the hand - or he tries to - but his body is still so painfully heavy.

The effort must translate, as there's a responsive squeeze back. It's gentle, but rough. It almost hurts.

"I'm right here, baby. I'm right here."

He doesn't have the strength to respond, can't move his lips or tilt his head to the source of the only sound he can hear. There's a cavity in his chest, a heavy weight in his lungs that keeps him from breathing. The beeping that was already so loud speeds up further, and suddenly the ceiling tiles above him are disappearing.

The blinding lights become unbearably brighter. Unable to keep his eyes open, they roll back with several heavy flutters of his eyelids.

The light is the last thing he sees.

***

There's no telling how long it's been when Harry's eyes have the strength to open again.

The lights are still too bright, and his eyes are still sensitive, but it doesn't ache as much anymore. His eyelids flutter open, no longer weighed down by an unexplainable pressure. The ceiling above him is crisp and clear. The sounds are clearer too, with that still incessant, steady beeping in his ears.