i'm falling again, i'm falling

Chapter 1: Prologue

At times, thoughts can be as destructive as the flood after a dam has ceased to hold itself together. Wiping away the walls that used to contain your inner demons, it is deadly to let the water spill. Nevertheless, these things tend to happen on their own accord.

When you are at your lowest point, you can easily find yourself waking up in the afternoon, surrounded by the washed-out green sheets that you hate. It's just that at times like this the weight of your thoughts is greater than the hatred for the set of sheets, which was your only choice since you couldn't bring yourself to do the washing.

The sheets didn't have any memories attached to them. The color just was unbearably ugly.

Harry was lying under the covers, still not wanting to open his eyes. He knew that he would be hit with soft daylight and immense guilt. Lately, he couldn't wake up at a normal hour, even if he went to bed before midnight. Lately, everything was harder for him.

He turned to lie on his back and brought his hands to his face, harshly rubbing it in an attempt to force himself awake. He opened his eyes and brought his hands to his hair, getting his fingers caught up in the infinite of knots. He had a feeling that they didn't form overnight.

Harry got lonely a lot. It hit especially hard in the morning and late evening when the lightning went through his bedroom window in shades that were full of empty promises. He could go about his day pretending that no one was home just yet, but it's harder to do when you don't wake up to familiar smells that have just started to disappear, or when you don't have anyone to wait for to go to bed with. Sometimes solitude could be good. Harry could often find inspiration in being lonely. However, there were only so many sad songs that could go on one album.

When his stomach was beginning to rumble, he finally stood up. The bedside clock told him it was a bit past two. Harry thought that there were kids that were already done with school at this hour, and he just got out of bed. He tripped on his way to the bathroom, for the twentieth time promising to himself that he would clean up the mess that was his bedroom.

When he got to the bathroom, he found himself startled by the sight of a stranger in his house. The man looked dirty and worn out, and he looked at Harry with fear and guilt. He didn't look like he meant any harm. He looked desperate. His clothes were stained; his hair was visibly tangled. The man's eyes looked tired and a bit puffy, so it was nearly impossible to figure out the color of his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked him. The man didn't respond, and Harry didn't even think that he would in the first place. It would be weird to assume that your own reflection would carry out a conversation.

That's what endorsing self-pity does to a human being. It ruins you, both physically and mentally. Even if Harry decided that it was finally time to properly groom himself, he wouldn't be able to pull off an extravagant shirt. It wouldn't match his personality, because with time he had become just as boring and blank as the browns of the tiles in his bathroom. To say the truth, even those tiles looked more lively than his grim self, offering a mundane comfort of their familiarity for Harry to feel like there was at least one constant in his life – his brown bathroom tiles.

Until recently, he could never understand how people could submerge themselves completely under the streams from the shower. Now he found himself liking it. The warm – sometimes scolding water would wrap him completely as if he was hugged by someone, blocking his senses by pouring down his head and leaving only the sensation of warmth surrounding his whole body.

Harry pulled his hands to his face and covered it, allowing himself to breathe in some air through his nostrils. He was sober, yet he felt like he was about to pass out from having too much to drink. It happens, when your mind is not doing you any favors and you hate yourself just enough to maybe eat one sandwich in a day and a half. Harry was weak, both mentally and physically, and it started to get annoying.

Having breakfast in bed is not a luxury when you willingly spend there all day. Not leaving the house and still getting money is not a benefit of your career if you feel imprisoned inside your own home. Although it's not always this way. It's rarely this way, actually. But the human mind is a wonder, and it doesn't even always take the smallest of triggers for it to slip into self-destruction.

Thankfully, everything passes. In a day or two, Harry would dance around the house again, remembering old tunes and coming up with new ones. There's always a rainbow after the rain. It's just that when it rains, it pours. Harry's rain was almost over, and he needed to get back on track.

He also needed to buy an extra set of sheets. And, perhaps, a smaller bed, because there's no use for having a king-sized one when there are no familiar smells that have just started to disappear, or when you don't have anyone to wait for to go to bed with.

I'm in my bed
And you're not here