2ᴺᴰ CHAPTER
“There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love”
Harry doesn’t really know how the past three years of his life led him to this. He doesn’t.
Or, well, he kind of does, but it’s still something he hasn’t come to terms with just yet. Three years ago, he’d be wild and free, chasing the adventures life would offer him as distraction from the misery he’d been destined to bear, since the apparent love of his life had left him for someone else, and he would quite handle the situation well, after all.
And if by ‘well’ it meant partying every single night with no exception, drinking from the sweetest to the sourest of the beverages, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat and organs ‘till his mind was fuzzy, eyes numb and vision verging between black and blank and body not coping with its own weight, then, well, so be it.
Harry clearly recalls how he’d dance until his muscles were sore, without caring much about the odd looks he’d receive; recalls being so extremely drunk he would barely handle the weight of an empty glass, reeling from one corner of the club to the other, smitten from a few bumps and trip overs, the buzzing of the loud music never halting in his ears, even once he pushed the doors open and went out for fresh air.
Vaguely recalls, though, the fights he always managed to get into – don’t ask him why, but he suspects he’d been flirting with taken women –, the several times security dragged him out under treats of getting the police for apparently being a troublemaker and such a pain-in-the-ass, as well; vaguely recalls taking someone home, the following mornings fuelled with a hell of a migraine and a way-too-strong smell of skin in his sheets (the one he’d never bother to clean, really) being the only proofs something had actually happened.
He would despise it all, spend hours and more hours in bed, tossing and turning to try and fall sleep again, hoping it would make the pain both in his chest and head go away; and when he finally gathered the strength to stand, he’d go straight into the shower, cold and unforgiving, washing away the alcohol and the sweat (mostly a mixture of his and someone else’s), making him shiver even on the hottest days.
Harry would spend what was left of his money on cheap food by the day, maybe sell a few of his paintings and photographs for a fair amount – if he was lucky enough – and then spend what he’d earned on drinks and cabs and cigarettes (besides other useless things) at night. He’d go to the same clubs, listen to the same beating of the same loud music, always parking his car at the same spot by the curb so he could remember where he should pick it the next day, and that was basically it.
It became a venomous cycle, then.
And it kept going for a long while, honestly, months and months, several days of the exact same routine, with invisible changes – one day he’d take longer to get up, the other he would go early into the shower then go back to sleep –, exhausting him to the point he couldn’t bear it anymore. It was when he stopped painting.
Then everything went downhill in a blink of an eye.
Everytime he soberly stood in front of his easel and canvas, the palette firmly fixed on his hand, all he would come up with was ChrissieChrissieChrissie and he couldn’t bear it; the perfect image of her pale face surging in his head instantly, basically. The way her lashes would disappear into her eyelids each time she opened her eyes; her high and slightly pink-ish cheekbones; how her upper lip was a lot thinner than her lower one, especially when she smiled, her huge, white teeth showing completely, a small dimple so close to forming. Harry felt so close to feeling the touch of her feathery blonde hair, sometimes straighter, sometimes falling into soft waves around her shoulders, sometimes just tied up in a bun that’d allow a few strands to fall loose messily, being placed behind her ear quickly.
And he could see her. That’s the thing. Whenever he tried to paint something he’d sell later, Chrissie came up and ruined everything; surged as perfect as always in his memory, ruined whichever the inspiration he had had before. It was a constant reminder that she’d chosen Matt over him and probably didn’t even think of him anymore.
And, okay, he’d tried to drunk-y paint a couple of times, because, why not? Thinking his work was pretty good, actually, and then staring at it the next day, seeing nothing but a mix of colours he’d splashed there angrily; something any kid would do. Once he even got to smudge his hands with paint and press them against the canvas, literally throwing it away – not without breaking it into a thousand pieces first – the next morning, setting it on fire inside the trashcan. He watched it burn with a glass of whisky in one hand, and a pack of cigarettes in the other.
Harry was drowning in misery.
The full breakdown came when literally, all he had left of money, was spent in drugs. He hadn’t tried before; had always known it was the road to perdition. And he wasn’t addicted to it. Wasn’t trying to kill himself, either, for God’s sake. He was only trying to forget about her, for longer than the alcohol allowed him. Everything else had just become useless, honestly. And if you ask him, he was not proud of himself. Had never thought he would get to that alarming point.
But then the last thing he remembers is having no other blank canvas in his studio, nothing but empty pots of paint scattered around the floor, photographs of Chrissie – hundreds of them – hidden in the back of his drawer (the one he constantly checked against his will and felt like punching himself later), and he needed help. To get rid of that sour feeling that was killing him slowly and painfully from inside out.
And then he woke up at the hospital. Couldn’t really pay much attention to whatever the doctor was saying, but he made out the words ‘nearly’, ‘died’ and ‘overdose’ and he didn’t need further scientific explanations because he was no doctor, needed no details about the whole process; but he was no idiot, either. He could understand what had nearly taken his life away.
He was screwed.
Somehow his family in Cheshire found out about the whole thing, even though the emergency number he’d always given people was his roommate’s, and stopping to think about it, it was probably him the responsible one for letting his family know about the whole incident. After that, Harry was forced into a rehab clinic.
But then again, he wasn’t addicted to drugs.
Had only tried to forget about Chrissie, and still, did it wrong. He was so useless he couldn’t even properly use drugs without almost dying of overdose. He was an idiot, really. Harry is aware he was the biggest idiot three years ago, probably still is, but the difference is that now, he has a bit of control over himself.
It took him a while, though, to get to the point he is now. The first month in rehab was pure hell for him, if he may say so himself. Once he arrived, everything was so tidy, and organized, and quiet. People were polite, they had a schedule to follow, the right time to do everything, barely had free time for themselves. And when they did, they were still observed; cigarettes were not allowed, if anyone had managed to find alcohol they had to throw it away as well, obviously, no drugs, but Harry couldn’t even use his scented candles, and that infuriated him. His candles were one of the things that calmed him down the most, and he had to live without them.
All in all, everything was so restrained he felt like breaking a window, throwing tables in the air and kicking chairs just for the sake of making people mad. He wanted controlled people to lose their minds a bit, maybe have fun with his own adventures, feel thrilled to the idea of doing so. So he did it. He broke a few things, tried to escape, tempted people who’d been in rehab for years to go back to their addiction.
Yeah, he can say he was a bit of an arse.
But time passed. Nurses kept restraining him one attempt after the other, kept giving him punishments for his misbehaviour, locking him in empty rooms and everything, until he eventually got sick of it. Less than a year later, Harry was just like everyone else. He still itched from time to time, wanting his cigarette and whisky and scented candles to just chill out, but got used to the feeling, as well. He simply became a robot.
Then he realized that once he managed to come out – which was what he’d wanted for a long time – he wouldn’t have anywhere to go, no money to spend, no one to count on. So he broke a few rules once in a while just to be kept inside the clinic. Teased people, broke whatever the glass he saw, gave people injuries, even if that meant two nights into a solitaire. It was worth it if he could still have a ceiling above his head.
Didn’t take much longer for the staff to realize what he was doing, though, and, well. Here he is.
They gave him his freedom, and even though Harry begged to stay – people had shot him odd glances when he’d said that –, they didn’t allow him. He had to go, because he was giving the clinic too much work and outgoes for no particular reason at all. ‘He was cured’, they’d said, and so he had to move on.
And now he has two weeks to get his shit solved before he gets definitely kicked out. Again. He’s screwed.
The first person he looks for is his old roommate, but honestly, it’s gullible of him to think he would still be living in that same flat they shared three years ago; of course he’d have moved out, wouldn’t want to see Harry again after everything he had to deal with. Harry was a depressed, loud and annoying roommate. Zayn deserved better.
But then, they were friends, Harry thinks idly, picking at the sleeve of his old sweater – even though it’s extremely hot, it’s the only thing that feels like home for him –, gawkily moving his feet on the ground. He’s standing there in front of the reception of the old building, not gathering enough strength to turn around and walk away. The guy behind the counter – who’s not the one Harry knew when he lived there – had already told him Zayn Malik had moved out over a year ago. Harry reckons it was when the calls for him had completely stopped at the clinic. He always refused to answer, anyway, because he was mad and he knew Zayn didn’t really care, because, after all, it’d been because of him that he ended up there to start with.
And yet, he’s still standing in the empty hall, hoping Zayn will show up at any moment and beg for his forgiveness, say he did a terrible mistake and that he should’ve kept Harry with him, taking care of him in his own way. (There’s also this deep little part inside of Harry screaming that he was the one who messed it up, pushed Zayn beyond his limits and made him take a drastic decision, as much as telling his family about the breakdown, after bearing with his drunk self for long, long months, but he ignores it because it was Zayn’s fault, he’s sure).
He stays there until the guy behind the counter stops giving him threatening stares and simply tells him to fuck off immediately if he doesn’t want to be pulled out by the police.
What’s the thing with calling the police? Harry’s not dangerous, Gee.
So he leaves, wraps himself in his own arms and delves his hands into the denim of the sleeve for self-protection, tries not to sweat much when the heat hits him again, a not-so-gentle reminder that he’s lonely and he’s homeless, also completely broke, and probably will have to bear with living under a bridge or something until his death.
Harry keeps walking, head down, trying to think of somewhere he can eat with the unfair amount of money a nurse gave him – because she was an old grandmother-like lady who pitied him and thought he was too young and too pretty to be going through so much – and decides, right there, that whatever happens in his life from now on, among all the uncertainties of it, of one thing he’s sure:
He ain’t loving again. Whether friends or girlfriends, it won’t happen. He can’t cope with another disappointment in his life.
And where there’s no love, there’s no reason to be disappointed.
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Author's Mind (?)
Comments: 1. Harry is pretty fucked up at the beginning, as you can see. And he's a bit of a rebel, but don't expect this to be a dark-Harry fanfic because he's still the embodiment of a walking rainbow, so. 2. Yes, obviously, this Zayn is the real Zayn. But he's the only boy besides Harry that's going to show up. 3. On the multimedia you can see how I picture Chrissie.
Dedication (to the best comment): {@EvyMalikGreece} Always makes me happy to see you appreciate how I take my time with building up the characters. Glad to see you're patient enough to cope with that. And thank you! Hopefully 2014 will be even better than 2013 was for me as a writer.
Next Update: Saturday; January 11th
Early Update: 500 votes