The Degradation (translation)

Chapter 22

Louis' pov

I couldn't sleep a wink at night because of the excitement that has not subsided until now. I told the doctor that there would definitely be improvements, because I trust Harry, but... That's a lie. I don't trust him. Not a drop. I've been thinking about it all night. I think Harry is the person I trust the least right now. I had so much faith in him, and he wanted to die. He just took a scalpel and cut his wrists. So how can I even use the word "trust" when talking about him? I don't know if there will be an improvement just because I don't seem to know Harry.

I look at my watch. 9:45. I should have gone to see him fifteen minutes ago, but I can't bring myself to get out of the car for fear of his condition. This is my only chance, and I'm sitting in the car. I repeat to myself the words of the coach about the fact that Harry is worth to fight for it. I check again to see if I've picked up the little black notebook I bought last night and finally open the car door. Go.

I walk up to the counter and for the first time I'm not told to leave. The woman smiles, hands me a pass, and says, "He's in room 394." I'm heading for the swing doors when she calls out to me and adds, "It's going to be okay." I nod at her and walk into the hallway. I wish I had her confidence.

This time I take the elevator and fix my hair in the mirror like an idiot. As soon as I'm in front of the right door, I stand still for a few seconds, breathing deeply. You trust him, Louis. You trust him. I believe in him.  I knock on the door — silence, knock again-silence again. I walk into the room and close the door behind me. He's lying on the bed, his head turned toward the window.

"Hey..."

He doesn't move, doesn't answer, I'm not even sure if he can hear me. My stomach hurts. His room is supercharged, it's big and white, no different from a normal hospital room. Except for the bars on the windows. And so, everything is standard: the bed, the chair, the table, the wardrobe, the door leading to the bathroom and among all this Harry, lying motionless on the white sheets. There's a TV hanging on the wall, but it's unplugged. Next to the bed is a monitor and a dropper, from which a million wires stretch. There's so much here, and I'm only looking at one thing — his bandaged wrists. I walk around the bed, sit on the edge, at the level of his thighs, and repeat again:

"Hi..." and he's silent again.

I look at him and my heart sinks. His skin is not just pale, it is sickly white, his features have become tougher because of the cheekbones, which are now much deeper, and the pronounced bruises under his eyes, he has lost a lot of weight. But this is not the worst thing, the most terrible thing is his look. It's empty. Literally. He doesn't look out the window or at me, he doesn't seem to see anything at all. He's not here. I can't talk to him because there's no one to talk to.

I touch his hand and tears come to my eyes. His nails are trimmed to the base, the skin around them is red, it should hurt. Why did they do this? So he doesn't scratch himself? I bring his hand to my lips and freeze in this position for a couple of minutes. He's still motionless. Does he even know I'm here? Or had all these drugs clouded his brain too much? I notice his diary lying on the chained table.

"Did they give you your diary?"

Still silence. I don't take my eyes off him, afraid that if I look away, he'll disappear. After that terrible night, I keep thinking about his bloody body. All the time.

"You're alive."

It came out on its own, my voice hoarse, but it's the only thing I can think about. He can't even hear me, but I keep saying it anyway.

"You scared me so much."

I sigh and bring his hand to my lips again, keeping my eyes on him. I don't know how much time passes, all I can think about is how lucky I am that he's still here. Not mentally, but physically, he's here. I can touch him, I can see him, and it's something I can't live without. His heart is still beating, and so is mine. The bandages on his arms go up to his elbows and remind me that I'm not sitting in a cemetery right now, but in a hospital, that things could have been much worse. I want to tell him so much, but I can't. I can't talk to him if he's not even looking at me.