CH: 11 - Shattered

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The streets of Hell's Kitchen seemed to thrum with life. Cars advanced through the streets, and the sound of laughter traveled hundreds of feet away, tinging the air with the uncanny feeling of happiness. Yet even amidst glowing streetlights and bright skyscrapers dotting the city's heart. One foreboding building seemed livelier than all.

A few hundred feet away, a young man stooped, hunched low on an apartment roof, examining the glistening city in curious wonder.

It had been barely two- maybe three weeks since he thought he'd died, only to wake into another hellish dream. Three weeks to explore the cities of New York, yet even now, he couldn't help but stare at the city unfolding before him in awe.

There seemed an unusual appeal to the bustling cityscape. And should it have been a different man standing on that roof, they would've found it beautiful.

But Harry could only see the veiled alleys lurking in wait and the devilish people with dark intentions hiding amongst the shadows. A grim way to look at things, but for him, it was merely routine.

Echoing car horns and the rushing sound of the wind was his only companion as he scoped out the land before him, and with a begrudging grunt, Harry lifted himself off the dusty ground. Stretching his limbs out in a way that shouldn't have hurt but did.

Apparently, not everything had healed yet.

As he stretched, Harry realized just how tired he was.

He'd slept every night, yes. But he was a light sleeper, something drilled into his brain from the age of five, and current events considered. It didn't exactly convince him to drop the habit.

Psh, yeah, right, as if I'll sleep well after-

Harry paused and blankly stared at the ground as a crumpled wrapper rolled past, drifting with the wind.

That was a stupid mistake, and Harry knew it. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't think about anything from then. At least for as long as he could help.

It was already over, done, and finished; the chapter concluded.

Besides, he knew better than anyone that there was no use crying over spilt milk. That would only cause regret, and all that did was create more pain. Merlin knew he'd enough of that for a lifetime.

Although it didn't change the fact that he'd made a mistake, that; Harry could at least admit to himself.

Why couldn't he just have stuck it through with his relatives? Stupid. He couldn't even remember why it was that he left in the first place. Something about a letter, and a fight, fluttered in his mind, but it was gone, and that was that.

It was true what they said; he was stupid and foolish. Made rash decisions and got people killed. Like the red-haired family that so liked to haunt his dreams.

Harry groaned and harshly pressed his fingernails into a deep vertical cut on his left arm. The first of many; justice for the blue-eyed boy who no longer got to know the wonders of the world.

He was an idiot. Letting his mind travel down a black hole of what-ifs. What did it matter if he berated himself till the sun died? It wouldn't save a single life, and it wouldn't spare him from his current position. Not that he deserved it anyway.

But that was just what happened in the past, not even counting the people he'd hurt, tortured even, to get information. While one could argue that it was out of necessity, it still didn't change the fact that it made him feel filthy. Which only stood to solidify his waves of self-hate. So very painfully proving that he deserved every ounce of pain he'd ever endured.

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