Harry Ryan has two first names (sybarite) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-09-07 23:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, harry osborn |
harry osborn narrative.
The days were spent in offices that sat high above gray skylines. So high in the atmosphere that the glass was cool when Harry rested his forehead against it to look all the way down. He thought about children who dropped pennies from rooftops and men who jumped during the Depression and then the day was suddenly gone, and his secretary came in to tell Harry that his driver was waiting for him below.
He looked at the darkened face of his cell phone a lot, wondering about the phone calls that would be made when he was dead and gone, and simultaneously wondering why he thought he was dying. Maybe it was the gray skies and cold windows, the endless nights of dark and silence. Sometimes he thought he was dreaming while still awake.
The most tangible realization he had was that he was alone. He'd run Gwen off some time ago, and Mary Jane too. Peter Parker, Harry felt, was at the center of both losses. He couldn't stand the idea of Gwen defending him for not helping her when she needed it, and Mary Jane did the same for different reasons. Everyone always defended him. Like just because he was special, his bad choices held merit. Peter Parker wasn't infallible, and he wasn't the sun they all needed to revolve around. This last Peter, like so many others, wasn't his friend. He wanted to play the hero and smile for the camera and he was never around when the people closest to him actually needed him. Harry was glad when it was realized that Spider-Man was gone.
He felt better, like recovering from some malaise unrecognized until that very day. He ate breakfast with crippling nausea. No bloody marys. Maybe it just had something to do with optimism. And then a single text message from Lily.
This isn't working Harry. I need some space. I'm planning a book tour for the fall, maybe I'll see you while I'm in New York.
A series of letters and spaces and the loneliness was back. He poured himself a drink that night and turned on the television. Within minutes, his own face was on the screen, Entertainment Tonight making the dissolution of his engagement gossip fodder. He changed the channel, thought again, and turned it off.
The journal, then. He wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand with refusal of acknowledging why they were even there. And then in the journal, in block print, clear as day, Peter was back.
Another one, second verse same as the first. Harry suddenly saw his life like it was, a flat plain spiraling into repetitive pain and smudged histories. He saw the people he cared about getting hurt over and over again because of a 'hero' who couldn't wouldn't be what they needed.
When Harry threw his scotch glass, it hit the fireplace and burst into crystalline shards. They sparkled like glitter in the carpet, and he thought it looked just like his future, glittering but so easily thrown away.