Kismet

One [The Bird]

Silence so quiet that it's deafening; no thoughts, no pain, no gravity and no spirit. Just static, halcyon cessation. Sooty, wordless death. Emptiness. Void. Oblivion.

Translucent light appears as a blip surrounded by a veil of slate far off in the distance and it's coupled with the sensation of falling. The brightness reduces to the size of a pinpoint until Harry is met with the perception of colliding into his bed with a harsh whack. He sits up in the same instant that he inhales a gasp, his eyes springing open to be greeted by the familiar surroundings of his claustrophobic studio apartment and all at once, he's violently sick to his stomach.

His feet are twisted and tangled in his sheets, his back and neck moist with sweat as he whimpers and fusses with his linens. He can feel bile creeping up the back of his throat and just as he releases his limbs, he's cupping his hand over his mouth and clambering to the bathroom. His kneecaps smack against the porcelain tile flooring as he removes his hand and empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet, his cheek resting on the cool seat as he lulls his eyes and catches his breathing. The astringency burns his esophagus as he swallows over and over, the blood slowly returning to his cheeks while he swears to himself that he won't be sleeping again tonight.

Harry decides that dream was particularly malignant because it had started off and carried on in a state of repose for so long that he had almost forgotten the imminent doom. He had been wrapped up in viewing the city from that perspective that crashing into the window was an awful shock, churning acid in his stomach and forcing it to the brink.

He adjusts and presses his forehead to the cold ceramic before sitting up and frowning at the contents swirling in the water, finally dragging himself to his feet and sending the substance away with a single click of a button on the tank cover. Harry spends the following five minutes hunched over the running water in the sink, brushing his teeth, rinsing out his mouth and washing his face as he reflects on his dream and refuses to look at his sallow skin in the mirror.

Harry shuffles the few steps back to his bed, plucking his phone from the sleek charging dock incorporated into his nightstand before illuminating the screen; no missed calls, no texts, no voice messages, a sad cluster of spam e-mails and one calendar reminder to pay rent in a few days. His eyes are so tired that they burn and suffer as he tries to focus on the small screen in his hand, the depressing physical evidence of his loneliness unbearable as he throws it onto his duvet cover and returns to the bathroom to shower.

The dream plays over and over like it's caught in a loop, the scorching hot water from the shower head soaking his hair and back while Harry stands motionless with his chin angled down; the rush of wind against his face and the heat of the sun on his back. Water rushes through his tresses and slips off in unbreakable streams, little beads pilling and dripping from the tip of his nose and eyebrows to join the rush of water down the drain; the sun blinding his vision, the dreadful pulse of panic through his veins when he realizes his life is over.

He presses his palms against the tile opposite him and allows his head to dangle between his shoulders; the foul crack of a broken neck, the aching cavity of dark eternity. Tears sting behind his eyes and burn in the bridge of his nose, he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and wills his sadness away with the thought of psychologically preparing himself for work. Sometimes he wishes his job were more mentally stimulating to force him out of these inner spirals, but then he remembers how fitting it is to be working a job where no one is dependent on him, the requirements are undemanding and the owners are willing to pay him under the table in cash - no questions asked.

Harry holds a washcloth under the burning heat of the water, soaking the flannel and draping it across his back and shoulders to let the warmth seep into his muscles. He groans and pushes his hair from his face, feeling his tissue loosen up with the help of the steaming fabric. His body isn't used to such long periods of dormancy so when he does give himself that permission, his bones and tendons tend to ache for the rest of the day, or at least until he can work them with physical activity.