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PRESENT TIME...
HARRY DOES NOT REMEMBER. He doesn't remember why he was in the bathroom naked with Violet bruises littered on his skin. Or why his fingers were coated with dry blood and his throat. He tries to recall why there are piles and piles of pills scattered on the floor, and why he was holding some in a fist.
Harry certainly does not know why his tears are mixed in his mouth with the lingering taste of strong alcohol that was his drinkable poison. An iron-copper like taste also comes to his mouth, fresh and still wet. Harry recognizes it almost at once as blood, licking the fluid to make sure.
He wonders why the grim reaper isn't over his head, ready to collect what is left of him, because right now it feels as though he is completely empty.
Empty.
A lack of heaviness and the weight of artificial pleasure is absent within him. The soberness of his mind drives him insane. It isn't that he can't handle being in control of his own self, it's just that he isn't used to this feeling at all. Because as long as Harry could remember, or the only thing he could actually remember, was that he wasn't alone.
Loneliness.
That's one thing Harry never had, never wanted.
The deficiency of contact and physical along with emotional connection made him mad, made him very forlorn. Harry would take anything. A punch, a kick, a kiss, a hug, a conversation, a broken heart, a bullet, an arrow, anything to just know that there was someone who cared enough to give him something. To make him feel something.
The gelid feeling of the unpigmented bathroom tiles bit at Harry's exposed skin.
Skin.
Harry quickly jolted up, knocking down his sepia bottle of whisky, shattering it to millions of tiny pieces, pricking at the tall man's pale feet. Even though damask rose colored shots of blood was pooling from him, he didn't care. Because this wasn't him. This wasn't him.
Harry's eyes immediately came in contact with the immense mirror which was attached against the vast wall of the bathroom. He saw the red scratches that were caused by long claw marks on his neck, causing him to understand why there was a burning sensation whenever he swallowed.
His nose was also poring out crisp blood, along with his mouth, this time in the sink instead of the bathroom tiles or his uncovered skin. Harry quickly opened the faucet and let the lukewarm water wash away some of the mess that his body had made, staining the marble sink.
Then Harry saw his eyes.
Green. Why were they green? They shouldn't be green. Whatever had happened last night, it took it out. Harry needed it back in. He couldn't handle the loneliness, he couldn't handle the silence. The silence of his mind would kill him before he could kill himself.
