Chapter One.
Harry sighed in remorse and relief as his dimly hidden eyes fell onto the various shades of pain, hurt, and heartbreak on his wrist as he took another hit of the wonderful, terrible blunt of marijuana he'd rolled earlier that day, knowing that this is where he would end up.
Alone.
Harry knew that not only was this drug bad for him, but he was addicted to the feeling of doing things he wasn't supposed to do, because it made him feel something.
Maybe not a good feeling, Harry could admit that smoking, drugs and cutting didn't give him butterflies nor put a smile on those chapped lips of his, but it made him feel just a small hint of control, or maybe it was hurt he felt.
Because no matter how many times Harry would deny it, he knew that it felt better to feel hurt than to feel nothing at all.
"Nothing" was a big word to Harry, maybe the most meaningful word to him, other than the word "unconditional" which was also his favorite.
Because "Nothing" meant absolutely nothing. There was no exception for nothing, nothing was nothing. It was also the best adjective to describe Harry.
Because to him, Harry was as a matter of fact, nothing. There was no simpler nor more advanced way to put it, other than 'nothing'.
His mother had given up on the broken soul of his, his councilor had no hope for the damaged boy, and his sister avoided him as much as she could, making sure he was out of the house if she ever visited, because wether they admitted it or not, they all knew that the joyful boy they once loved, was long lost and was buried behind the walls Harry had built, keeping everybody including himself out of his mind which would often wander into dangerous places.
Maybe Harry was just like every other city teenage boy out there, lost and confused, or maybe he was a lost cause, burying himself alone in his misery.
Harry knew that he was diagnosed with depression, but never had he known that things could get to the point where he would have to hurt to feel something at all.
His mother, Anne, had read a lot about this awful 'depression' of Harry's, and she knew that he would be difficult to handle, but never had she known that she would smell the disgusting smell of drugs every time she embraced her barely filled sixteen year old son, never had she even thought about preparing herself for seeing the deep scars on her son's cream colored skin, and despite all these things that Anne chose to ignore, she loved her son so dearly. So dearly that she had not had the heart to even bring up the sickening odor radiating off her cut up son, despite the fact that like any other mother would be, frankly, Anne was scared shitless. For as the sun would set behind the hills of beauty, as the sky would be painted a beautifully orange, as the stars would appear one by one up on the sky, Anne would hear the thumps out in the hall, the click of the door, and she would know that her son was out of the house, and she could not help he wonder, "what If he takes it too far this time?"
But every morning, at the crack of dawn, her son would be back in bed, his curls falling onto his swiftly shut eyes, but yet, just by looking at the small frame in the bed, anybody could see the fragileness in the sleeping mess.
Because it wasn't the lonely hours Harry had spent looking onto the street that had brought the young soul into such despair; It was every emotion Harry had felt at the loss of a loved one, which seemed like years ago to Harry as the hours would drag on and on. For Harry wasn't rather unreasonable; the boy did have a reason for this utter sadness that approached in the boy's appearance.
But this, Harry had not yet been able to speak up about to anybody, so Harry had shut down to everybody, because simply, for such a nothing as Harry, it was easier that way.
