The Degradation (translation)

Chapter 23

"He doesn't need me anymore"

***

Louis' pov

Nothing good happened.

I was so excited about this meeting, I put so much hope into it, but it was no different from the previous one. Despite the fact that he had asked to see me, he still lay motionless on the bed and stared out of the window with glassy eyes. I think it pissed me off. He wanted me to come. For what? For the sake of keeping him quiet, of not noticing me? I spent an hour sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his hand, talking to him, telling him I needed him, but nothing. It annoyed me to a terrible degree. As I left the room, I bumped into his doctor. Stephen, I think. He explained that I needed to be patient, reminded me that Harry had tried to kill himself as if I could fucking forget, and that this wasn't the first time. It was like being slapped in the face. It's not the first time, of course. The third. Fucking third time. The first time when he was fifteen, the second after Samantha's death, and now. He talked about Harry's illness, but not the way his father had, the words were much harsher, coming out of the mouth of a man in a white lab coat standing in the middle of a psychiatric hospital corridor. Much more authoritative. In short, Harry's brain is a mess. That's what he said, "bar-duck." His emotions are mixed, his reactions are unpredictable, and no one ever knows what might come into his head.

"He thinks he's making a mistake."

A mistake. He thinks it's a mistake. He thinks I'm making a mistake by meeting a mistake and not considering it a mistake. Well, how can you not go crazy?

The hardest part was hearing that he was failing to fit in, and probably never would. It reminded me of when we were playing pool and he said I was going to leave anyway because he wasn't worthy of anyone staying with him. It hurts me to even think about it. At the end of the conversation, the doctor built me a "logical" chain: Harry is sure that everyone will leave him, and if this does not happen, then he himself provokes another person to do it. He shouts at the whole room that I'm going to leave sooner or later, for example. And if that doesn't work, then the good old method is to die. It all comes down to one thing-complete uncertainty that something is permanent. When I started sending him a countdown, it took him more than twenty days to respond to me. To make sure I don't quit. If it hasn't already occurred to him that no, I'm not going to pack up my things and walk out of his life, then I'll do everything I can to make sure he finally understands that.

Unlike the previous time, the doctor himself asked me to come the next day. He finally realized that Harry needed me. I'll come tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, but I'll come for a whole year. Not just because I'll never leave him — even if it's true — but because I'm leaving a part of me here, and it's only when I sit in the ward, on this cold bed, and see his empty face, that I feel like I'm not empty.

Come out of his room. For the third time. There are still no changes, he does not move further, does not eat, does not drink. He hasn't spoken since he called me. I talk to him every day. About nothing, to be honest, about your day. I ask him to come to his senses. Slowly, if he wants to. I don't want him to get better tomorrow and cut his wrists again in a month. Let him do everything as it suits him. Just let him fucking do something.

At this point, I finally realize that I can't help him. I mean, I can, but I'm not the only one, love is not enough and never has been enough. He needs treatment, deep and serious, he will be ill for the rest of his life, mental illnesses cannot be cured permanently. But he'll get better, I'll keep an eye on it, I don't want him to live with the idea of dying. I just want him to get better. I want to put this nightmare behind me. We can do it. It should work. Let him do something.