Three in the Morning

The voicemail was a mess of garbled words, and all I could make out was Harry’s desperate plea for me to come round to his immediately. It didn’t make sense for me to give into him so easily, but if there was anyone who knew my weaknesses, it was him. He knew I never slept, that I didn’t take my pills on weekends, and that it didn’t matter that he was calling me at three in the morning because I’d oblige him. I always did.

I used to think so highly of London. It used to be a beacon of freedom, a separation from my mum’s rules and requirements, my interpretation of Kerouac’s On the Road. I was Moriarty, craving adventure and recklessness, and I guess I found it in a way. What I really found was trouble, the ability to lose myself in absolutely nothing good, and I learnt how to drown more quickly than I’d learnt how to swim.

The glimmer of London faded fast. All at once it went from romanticised getaway, swan song of my former self, to wasteland. Everywhere I turned there was trouble, someone else to offer me a hit and have a laugh when I passed out in some back alley. London was no place for a bird like me. I wanted adventure and recklessness, and that’s exactly what I fucking got.

Harry’s flat was in the city proper, guarded by high iron gates and wishful thinking. After so long, it began to feel like home. But it was more like books, really — ones I’d read as a kid. I could remember the basic premise but not the details. Sometimes things got mucked up in my brain and things got switched around. Sometimes I couldn’t remember if we’d shared our first kiss in the kitchen or the upstairs study or if the first time we’d gotten high was in his lounge or his bedroom. Those things weren’t important. What I’d committed to memory, though, those were my favorite. The first time he told me he loved me we were lit, listening to Miles Davis records in the middle of the afternoon. I could never forget that. That’s what made it home.

This time, however, I cursed him as I walked the few blocks to his. London was parky and I’d forgotten a jumper in my haste. I sent him a text when I was a few houses away, telling him to have the door unlocked when I got there, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. He never did.

I must’ve banged on his door for ages. Slowly, various rooms lit up as he made his way down from his bedroom, and when he pulled the door open I wasn’t at all surprised by his appearance.

“It’s fuckin’ freezin’ out here,” I snapped, careful to keep my voice down. “What the fuck were you doin’? Didn’t you get my text?”

Harry barely realised I was standing in front of him. “Why’re you here?”

My eyes narrowed. “You called me fifty fuckin’ times, beggin’ me to stop by.”

“No I didn’,” he said. His fingernails dug at his bare chest, creating dark scratches across his tattooed skin.

I dug my mobile out of my pocket to show him. “Yeah, you did.” As I shoved the phone in his face, I realised how bloodshot his eyes were. “The fuck are you on, Haz?”

He was on another planet entirely. His skin was pale and his breathing ragged. The only time I’d seen him this bad was right after the band had broken up. “You prangin’ out?” I asked again.

His eyes made their way to my face and he nodded so slowly I thought his head must’ve been filled with lead. There was no talking to him, no trying to get him to explain anything. Harry didn’t know who he was in that moment, and for a second I wondered if that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” I said, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders as I guided him back into his house.

He moved as slowly as he’d nodded, barely able to keep himself upright without my help. His place was a mess, too — empty bottles and rubbish strung all over the place and it reeked of green. I’d no idea how long Harry had been on about this, but it was no longer such a surprise that he was off his arse in the middle of the night.

I sat him on a barstool in the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. “How long’ve you been on this binge?” I asked, rounding the island to give him the glass. He just sat there with his eyes glazed, staring through me. “Harry,” I said, slapping his cheek lightly to grab his attention.

“Wha’?” he croaked.

“You have to tell me what you’re on,” I said, bringing the water to his purple, cracked lips. He closed his eyes as if he’d been parched for years, and I knew that’s exactly what he felt like. “What’d you take?” I asked again.

“I don’ remember.”

I sighed, setting the glass on the counter as I looked around. I’d been hoping he would’ve been stupid enough to leave something out in the open, or at least enough of something else to clue me in. But there was nothing.

All I wanted to do was throw my arms up and leave, tell Harry I was too sober to be dealing with his bullshit and spend the rest of the night trying to sleep. Wasn’t that how all of this had started anyway? But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave him half-dead in his kitchen to clean himself up, probably hours from now and caked in his own sick.

I tangled my fingers in his thick curls. His eyes fluttered at the contact. “You can’ go to sleep, Haz, you know that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve taken enough shite to knock an elephant on its arse and…” I paused, trying to rid myself of the lump that’d formed in my throat, “and if you go to sleep, you probably ain’t wakin’ up. At least not for a while.” Harry’s head lolled back. “Hey, you hearin’ me?”

“Yeah,” he choked out.

“Can you sit here for a minute while I run you a cold shower?”

Harry’s eyes snapped open then, the colour of them still able to take my breath away, especially when his pupils were so small, and he wrapped a bony hand around my wrist. “Don’ leave.”

“Harry, I’m just—”

His eyes pooled with tears. “Please, don’!” He let out a rather pained sob as he buried his face in my chest, the fabric of my T-shirt clenched tightly in his fists. “Blythe, please, don’ leave me like this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Blythe, I’m so sorry.”

My head tilted back as if it’d stop the onslaught of tears that’d now pooled in my own eyes. “Harry, I’m just goin’ to the loo.”

“You can’ leave,” he sobbed. “Please don’ leave me. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” I said, tilting his chin to look at me. “Can you do somethin’ for me, Haz?” He nodded slowly, his head lolling side to side. “Can you think really hard and remember what you took?”

To his credit, Harry seemed to mull over my question. “I-I took some pills.”

“That’s good, babe.” I smoothed the fly-aways in his hair. “Do you remember what kind of pills, love? Were they the kind you get from the chemist?”

Harry’s mouth hung open. “I love you,” he slurred. “I love you so much.”

My eyes shut on their own, as if doing so could protect me. But they couldn’t. Nothing could save me from Harry anymore. He’d dug into my skin and made a home for himself. He’d infested every part of my being, inside and out.

“Can you make it to the loo?”

He nodded, grabbing onto me for balance. Harry was dead weight as far as I was concerned, and dragging him down the hall to the closest shower was like watching a man walk to his death who was entirely unprepared — all dragging feet and no cooperation. Inside, I switched the light on with one hand, ignoring Harry’s cries about being blind. I sat him on the toilet while I ran a cold shower.

“Stand up, love,” I instructed him, grabbing onto the belt loops on his pants so he didn’t tumble backward. “D’you want to leave your trousers on?” He nodded, though I was sure he hadn’t understood what I’d asked.

Harry climbed into the shower on his own, allowing the cold water to wash over him. I had no idea if it was going to sober him up but I knew it’d keep him awake and semi-conscious. I watched silently as he sat with his back against the wall, humming a song to himself that only he knew the words to.

He called my name as I stared at myself in the mirror, wondering how on earth I’d wound up in this position. “What d’you need, Harry?”

“It’s cold,” he said, though he didn’t look it. “I don’ want to be alone.”

Wordlessly, I slipped off my shoes and climbed in with him. I was nowhere near as high as he was and I felt every last bit of the cold, but Harry pulled me against him, back to chest, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, as if he could sense what I needed at any given moment. In a way, I guess he could.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Maybe minutes, could’ve been hours. Eventually our skin had wrinkled and I leaned forward to shut off the water. Harry had kept on humming that same song, still stoned off his arse, and it was the only reason I knew he was awake.

“Blythe?” The coarseness of his voice sent a chill up my spine. I grunted in acknowledgement, too exhausted to speak full words. “You know that I love you, don’ you?”

I nodded. “I know.”

“I love you more than anythin’.”

Entwining our fingers, I brought his hand to my mouth and kissed it. “I love you, Harry. You’ve no fuckin’ idea how much I love you.”