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𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙫𝙚 — 𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙣𝙞𝙙 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙣
☕
IT WAS ANOTHER rough night for Harry. Living with a chronic illness – that had no cure or any real treatment that could help his state of living – fucking sucked and he hated it. He woke up and his back felt like he had broken it the night before and his head was just pounding up against his skull. It was so bad that he skipped his second class because he just couldn't do it anymore, no matter how hard he was trying to focus in his first lecture.
So he spent the whole day in bed, taking enough Advil that it could probably potentially lead to an overdose with noise-cancelling headphones in, wallowing and just trying to sleep.
And it did nothing.
Because now it was ten o'clock at night and his head was still a fucking mess, battering up against his skull so hard that he wanted to just smash it against a wall, and his limbs were screaming in pain with every move he made.
But forced himself up and in clothes to get his only 'cure'; drugs. Because when he was high, it didn't hurt. When he was gone and lost without a brain, the pain stopped registering and he could finally breathe again without the burn. Fuck his dad. Fuck his father and his dreams to become a superhuman and injecting himself with his radioactive creation that spread to his child.
Fuck the short lifespan that came along with it. Fuck the pain.
God, did he really hate life. Everything just felt so terrible and he wanted it to stop; he would do anything to just make the pain stop. No matter what it was as long as he could just move without the aches and his head stopped feeling this way. It was terrible and he just wanted to get high already.
It was times like these that he was glad that Peter was never in their dorm. Because no one knew of the pain, of the tears that streamed down his face because it hurt so much but there was no real reason for it to be burning. Because no one knew how he went out and hung around stoners for hours as he just got high and forgot about the pain at least for a little while. No one worried and no one knew.
It was glorious because he couldn't really handle his friends knowing about this problem. They didn't need his burden draped along their shoulders so that they carried the weight. It was his and his alone. Well, his and his father's, but who cares about that old man? He was just the mad, old CEO of Oscorp who poisoned himself and his kid – not that he ever cared about Harry after his mother's death. Not like he was even around to love Harry when his mother was alive.
But drugs. They were great. An escape that he never wanted to get away from him. So what if they were killing him? He was already dying, an unclean needle or some bad coke would just speed up the process. No harm no foul, really.
