Harry Ryan has two first names (sybarite) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-06-23 23:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, harry osborn |
[narrative.]
Who: Harry Osborn
Where: Marvel; New York to Paris.
When: Encompassing the last week up to this moment.
Warnings: Mention of drugs, destructive behavior, etc.
Harry hadn't gone to Gwen's funeral. He didn't want to deal with it in any capacity that extended beyond signing off on the bill. Oscorp took care of it all, and everything was platinum pricetagged because of that. Harry thought that Gwen wouldn't like such a spectacle, but spending the money gave him something to do, and it felt like vindication. Because she wasn't here. He felt betrayed, and he didn't know who to blame. He didn't even know where to begin to look for a culprit to point his finger at. His mind was becoming a mess, and it was getting to the point where he couldn't tell if his thoughts were memories, wishful thinking, or nightmares. Awake, everything was becoming deja-vu. Stones skipped on a pond and his reflection in ripples: past, present, future.
The night before Gwen's funeral, he'd gotten drunk. Alcohol gave him license to feel everything that he'd been refusing to, and Harry raged. He broke things; furniture, windows, crystalline tumblers. He barricaded himself in his father's study, which had become a sarcophagus since the man's death. Untouched until now, pristine and polished as a museum. Harry hid himself there, then slept the day away with the curtains all drawn. A solid week of this, and then he was gone altogether. Without a word on the journals or to the press, he vanished into the back of a dark limousine. He gave no response to the inquiries over where he was going, and boarded his private jet with bloodshot eyes hidden away behind crocodile sunglasses.
When he emerged, it was in Paris. Fucked up on molly and jetlag, tongue-tied and teary-eyed all the way to Hôtel Plaza Athénée. This was where he belonged. Opulence that dripped from the ceiling, and the models all drank sparkling water. Toast and gin for breakfast, the tabloids were there by lunch with rolled cigarettes dangling past the lenses of their cameras. The story would be back in New York, posted on gossip blogs for the 3 AM crowd. Harry got fucked up and slept fitfully. A tear in the bedsheets felt like a hole in his armor when he awoke. He consulted the journal; at last, lonely. Undeservedly so, with his roundabout escape act half across the world. But it was loneliness all the same. His heart gurgled loud in the empty room like being alive was a consolation prize to all of the thoughts that he feared.