sdmn one sh~i~ts

Relief /wroetojzl

words: 1677
warnings: self harm and suicide⚠️

He wakes up in the morning.

If you can even call it that.

It's the time of morning where the sun has yet to reach over the horizon, where the moon shines through the blinds and across the grain of the darkened wooden floors.

It's almost as if the world has stopped around him, with stark silence cutting through the space in his room. The only evidence of time is the static lull of the clock to his right, who's blaring light illuminates the planes of his face and the folds of the quilt covers that lay on top of him. It's slow to turn, and every minute it takes for the clock to change feels longer and longer each time.

3:45.

It mocks like a child, itches at him like an irritated wound. There's a laughing he can distantly hear, ringing in his ears. The red glow of the numbers haunts him like a ghost. Is it even possible to be haunted by a colour?

It's all your fault.

The thought cuts through the silence of the room like a knife. It's clean cut and clear, echoing in every inch and crevice of his body. That's right. It's all his fault. Realistically, he doesn't even know what he is putting himself at fault for, but he knows he's not wrong.

He's never been good enough, always second best at least. His body exists in the shadows of others, overseen by their golden light and successes, unappreciated for whatever he does to make them shine brighter.

Harry can claim he's used to it. But he's not. It never ceases to ache, knowing he will always be overturned and pushed aside for the person who will always be better. He knows that with every chance he does get, there will always be something -anything- that is just short of perfect. That imperfection makes him useless, unable to match up to the expectations of those that surround him, and his own.

You're useless.

The self loathing and disdain storm into his chest all at once. Like angry waves, they surge and crash against the cavity of his chest, suffocating him. It doesn't stop, an onslaught of emotions that he can't control. His body feels heavy with each crash. It hurts to breathe. His shoulders are shaking. The cold sleeps in through his toes and up his spine.

Your best isn't good enough.

You'll never be good enough.

He's wide awake at this point, and yet he already feels so exhausted. There's only so many nights he can take of this, of feeling so horribly odd and useless, like a puzzle piece that won't fit, no matter how you try and orient it. Every movement feels like too much. Each blink, intake of breath, and twitch of his feelings feels like a waste. He's taking air that someone else could benefit more from, wasting space that could be more useful to someone else. Anyone else. Anyone but him.

It's too much.

It's too much, he repeats to himself, running cold fingers against raised edges of skin along his arms. They've all healed over, and they have been for a long while, but he wishes there was a way he could open them again, just let them flow until there's nothing left of him.

The light outside flickers, drawing Harry's eyes up, away from his arms. There's a balcony up there, he reminds himself. There's a rooftop he can look down from, an edge he can feel his feet dangle over. There's a cold hard ground below, one that'd shatter his hard and exhausted bones. It'd give him relief. He'd finally be free from this torment.