The Degradation

Chapter 22

"..." – Harry

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Song: SafetySuit - Anywhere But Here

I didn't sleep all last night because of the excitement, which has not subsided until now. I told the doctor that there would definitely be improvements because I trust Harry, but... That's a lie. I don't trust him. Not a bit. I've been thinking about it all night. I think Harry is the person I trust the least right now. I had so much faith in him, and he wanted to die. He just took a scalpel and cut his wrists. So how can I even use the word "trust" when talking about him? I don't know if there will be an improvement just because I don't seem to know Harry.

I look at my watch. 9:45 am. I should have gone to see him fifteen minutes ago, but I can't bring myself to get out of the car for fear of his condition. This is my only chance, and I'm sitting in the car. I repeat to myself the words of the coach that Harry is worth fighting for. I check again to make sure I've got the little black notebook I bought last night, and finally open the car door. Let's go.

I go to the counter and for the first time, they don't tell me to leave. The woman smiles, hands me a pass, and says: "He's in room 394." I'm heading for the swing doors when she calls out to me and adds, "It's going to be okay." I nod at her and go into the hallway. I'd like her confidence. This time I take the elevator up and fix my hair in the mirror like an idiot. As soon as I'm in front of the right door, I stand still for a few seconds, breathing deeply. You trust him, Louis. I trust him. Come on. I believe in him.

I knock on the door - silence, I knock again - silence again. I walk into the room and close the door behind me. He's lying on the bed, his head turned toward the window.

"Hey..."

He doesn't move, he doesn't answer, I'm not even sure if he can hear me. My stomach hurts. His room is overpowering, it's big and white, no different from a normal hospital room. Except for the bars on the windows. As it is, everything is standard: the bed, the chair, the table, the wardrobe, the door leading to the bathroom, and in the middle of it all, Harry, lying motionless on the white sheets. There's a TV hanging on the wall, but it's unplugged. Next to the bed is a monitor and a dropper, from which a million wires stretch. There's so much here, and I'm only looking at one thing — his bandaged wrists. I walk around the bed, sit on the edge, at the level of his thighs, and repeat again:

"Hey...."

And he's silent again. I look at him and my heart squeezes to hurt. His skin is not just pale, it is sickly white, his features have become harder because of the cheekbones, which are now much deeper, and dark circles under his eyes, he has lost a lot of weight. But this is not the most terrible thing, the most terrible thing is his look. He's empty. Literally. He doesn't look out of the window or at me, as if he can't see anything at all. He's not here. I can't talk to him because there's no one to talk to.

I touch his hand and tears come to my eyes. His nails cut off, the skin around them is red, it must be painful. Why did they do this? So that he doesn't scratch himself? I bring his hand to my lips and hold it there for a couple of minutes. I kiss him gently as if it could erase his pain. He has no reaction, he doesn't move. Does he even know I'm here? Or had all these drugs clouded his brain too much? I notice his diary lying on the chained table.

"Did they give you your diary?"

Still silence. I don't take my eyes off him, afraid that if I look away, he'll disappear. After that terrible night, I keep thinking about his bloody body. All the time.

"You're alive."

It just came out, my voice hoarse, but it's the only thing I can think about. He can't even hear me, but I keep saying it anyway.