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2ᴺᴰ CHAPTER

                                                       2ᴺᴰ CHAPTER

         “There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love”

Harry doesn’t really know how the past three years of his life led him to this. He doesn’t.

Or, well, he kind of does, but it’s still something he hasn’t come to terms with just yet. Three years ago, he’d be wild and free, chasing the adventures life would offer him as distraction from the misery he’d been destined to bear, since the apparent love of his life had left him for someone else, and he would quite handle the situation well, after all.

And if by ‘well’ it meant partying every single night with no exception, drinking from the sweetest to the sourest of the beverages, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat and organs ‘till his mind was fuzzy, eyes numb and vision verging between black and blank and body not coping with its own weight, then, well, so be it.

Harry clearly recalls how he’d dance until his muscles were sore, without caring much about the odd looks he’d receive; recalls being so extremely drunk he would barely handle the weight of an empty glass, reeling from one corner of the club to the other, smitten from a few bumps and trip overs, the buzzing of the loud music never halting in his ears, even once he pushed the doors open and went out for fresh air.

Vaguely recalls, though, the fights he always managed to get into – don’t ask him why, but he suspects he’d been flirting with taken women –, the several times security dragged him out under treats of getting the police for apparently being a troublemaker and such a pain-in-the-ass, as well; vaguely recalls taking someone home, the following mornings fuelled with a hell of a migraine and a way-too-strong smell of skin in his sheets (the one he’d never bother to clean, really) being the only proofs something had actually happened.

He would despise it all, spend hours and more hours in bed, tossing and turning to try and fall sleep again, hoping it would make the pain both in his chest and head go away; and when he finally gathered the strength to stand, he’d go straight into the shower, cold and unforgiving, washing away the alcohol and the sweat (mostly a mixture of his and someone else’s), making him shiver even on the hottest days.

Harry would spend what was left of his money on cheap food by the day, maybe sell a few of his paintings and photographs for a fair amount – if he was lucky enough – and then spend what he’d earned on drinks and cabs and cigarettes (besides other useless things) at night. He’d go to the same clubs, listen to the same beating of the same loud music, always parking his car at the same spot by the curb so he could remember where he should pick it the next day, and that was basically it.

It became a venomous cycle, then.

And it kept going for a long while, honestly, months and months, several days of the exact same routine, with invisible changes – one day he’d take longer to get up, the other he would go early into the shower then go back to sleep –, exhausting him to the point he couldn’t bear it anymore. It was when he stopped painting.

Then everything went downhill in a blink of an eye.

Everytime he soberly stood in front of his easel and canvas, the palette firmly fixed on his hand, all he would come up with was ChrissieChrissieChrissie and he couldn’t bear it; the perfect image of her pale face surging in his head instantly, basically. The way her lashes would disappear into her eyelids each time she opened her eyes; her high and slightly pink-ish cheekbones; how her upper lip was a lot thinner than her lower one, especially when she smiled, her huge, white teeth showing completely, a small dimple so close to forming. Harry felt so close to feeling the touch of her feathery blonde hair, sometimes straighter, sometimes falling into soft waves around her shoulders, sometimes just tied up in a bun that’d allow a few strands to fall loose messily, being placed behind her ear quickly.