narrative: harry ryan
What: A reveal, if you look even a little bit close
Where: Harry's apartment, then mystery locale
When: Morning after party ends
Harry couldn't remember how he'd gotten home, but that wasn't anything new for Harry when it came to parties. That wasn't anything new for Harry on a run of the mill Monday morning. He was beyond fucked up, and that too, wasn't anything new. None of this was new, you understand, that is why he wasn't worried. This wasn't the first time that he'd woken up on the floor beside his bed, floral sheets tangled around his head, the taste of stomach acid and too much liquor on his tongue. This wasn't even the first time that he'd woken up bleeding, but by the time he pulled the sheet off of his eyes, everything looked way too red for it be normal. This wasn't a skateboarding injury or late night fuck-the-world cutting aftermath. This shit was deep, and the sheet was stuck to him like glue in places where the wounds were already trying to dry.
He couldn't move his neck, he couldn't even hardly lift his hands to rub the sleaze drag of sleep out of his eyes. His palms scrambled for pills on his nightstand, pain pills benzos, muscle relaxers, whatever... but they weren't there. He must have already taken them, there was a beer bottle beside the bed and its label was streaked in blood, but he didn't remember drinking that either, and he didn't think that he felt drunk. He wasn't sure that he was feeling much of anything beside the cold.
He sniffled, trying to find his phone in the sheets he'd become tornadoed with. There were fishnet stockings in the twist, and he didn't know where those came from either, although the size 11 platform heels in the corner might have been able to jog his memory.
He had a cotton tee shirt on vintage Ramones, mostly white, bought way for too much money off of Ebay(and potentially not even legit, but that wasn't the biggest issue right now!) The white was soaked through in blood, it clung red to his sparrow chest and even trying to get off of the floor made his skin tear all over again.
"What the fucking corndog hell..." It wasn't shouted, but groaned into a fistful of sheets while Harry continued to try and find his footing, or at least his kneecaps. None of the lights were on in the apartment, not even the glittery Christmas lights strung over his bed, and it was all kinds of disorienting to be getting a degree of light directly from the small window above the arcade.
His phone was blinking from between his knees, and Harry tried to read the names, numbers, or texts but he couldn't. His vision was too blurry, and he rolled onto his back against the ice cold floor of his apartment. The combination of pills and blood loss and who knows what else that left Harry spinning from the floor. He felt sick, cold, dizzy. Symptoms of blood loss or overdose, he didn't know, he couldn't even tell how bad his wounds were because blood was literally everywhere. It was all over his bed and his bedding and his body, and he might have thrown up if his stomach hadn't been so desperate to hold onto the last of the hydration it was due.
Phone in his hand, and permed wig lost somewhere in the background, Harry squinted one eye to discern his recent calls. Weird, there was one from his dad. He didn't remember that. Harry's vision went useless blur again, and he squint-mashed at a couple of keys until his phone started to ring. He really had no idea who he was calling.