Harry Hart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
youcantransform) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
checkingout2015-04-26 11:13 pm
youcantransform) wrote in checkingout2015-04-26 11:13 pm
Entry tags:
Closed
Who: Harry & Merlin
When: Tuesday 28th April
Where: The lobby; elsewhere?
What: Spies having problems.
Warnings: Self-harm arising from post-traumatic stress, potential for discussion around suicide.
Imagery Rehearsal Therapy is a technique by which one can, in theory, command control over recurrent traumatic nightmares by imagining them having played out differently in waking hours.
Harry fits this into his routine. For five minutes a day, in the evening, he finds himself a quiet mental space and tries to do it. Day by day he tries a different scenario:
The test never takes place. He sits through a hollered sermon, bilious with hatred, and when it's over he simply walks away into the bright summer sunshine. Valentine kills him.
The test takes place without him. He stands; he leaves the church; whatever chaos might be unfolding at his back never reaches him. Valentine kills him.
The test goes ahead. The signal whines and shrieks in rising pitch; he holds onto himself, he defends himself without bloodshed; he doesn't kill just for the bright savage joy he felt in the massacre. Valentine kills him.
Valentine kills him, but the hands he raises at the threshold aren't soaked in innocent blood.
He imagines these things. And then he flinches away from them, disgusted with himself, because he's sick at the thought that he would try to erase the damage he's done just for his own comfort.
While he's thinking about this he drags his nails against the shrapnel wounds on his collarbone. Scrapes off the scabs, feels them bleed. The ones on his face and neck are healing nicely, and he doubts they'll even scar noticeably; everything that can't be hidden by a buttoned collar is an angry red, the wounds larger than they were when inflicted, a couple of them starting to feel hot to the touch and yellowish with the early signs of infection. He doesn't look at them, really, doesn't think about them except for how they bring him back into the now.
The dreams change for the worse. He dreams of hearing Merlin's voice in his ear - Galahad - Harry - what the heck is going on? - turning to see him there, slashing his throat open because he wants to. Watching helplessly from another continent as Eggsy's hands are committed to the same sins. Leaving the church and killing Valentine's men, his right-hand woman, the man himself, because he simply can't stop.
The food stops coming. It won't be the first time he's lost all knowledge of when his next meal is coming. He has fruit stockpiled, and chocolate, and syrup. For the first few days he resolves to simply go without, cut down on his exercise regime, and then resort to minimal rations if the problem goes unresolved.
On Tuesday morning he exchanges nods with Merlin where he's sitting reading in the lobby, unaware of the blood spotting through his shirt, just barely visible beneath the leaf of his collar.
When: Tuesday 28th April
Where: The lobby; elsewhere?
What: Spies having problems.
Warnings: Self-harm arising from post-traumatic stress, potential for discussion around suicide.
Imagery Rehearsal Therapy is a technique by which one can, in theory, command control over recurrent traumatic nightmares by imagining them having played out differently in waking hours.
Harry fits this into his routine. For five minutes a day, in the evening, he finds himself a quiet mental space and tries to do it. Day by day he tries a different scenario:
The test never takes place. He sits through a hollered sermon, bilious with hatred, and when it's over he simply walks away into the bright summer sunshine. Valentine kills him.
The test takes place without him. He stands; he leaves the church; whatever chaos might be unfolding at his back never reaches him. Valentine kills him.
The test goes ahead. The signal whines and shrieks in rising pitch; he holds onto himself, he defends himself without bloodshed; he doesn't kill just for the bright savage joy he felt in the massacre. Valentine kills him.
Valentine kills him, but the hands he raises at the threshold aren't soaked in innocent blood.
He imagines these things. And then he flinches away from them, disgusted with himself, because he's sick at the thought that he would try to erase the damage he's done just for his own comfort.
While he's thinking about this he drags his nails against the shrapnel wounds on his collarbone. Scrapes off the scabs, feels them bleed. The ones on his face and neck are healing nicely, and he doubts they'll even scar noticeably; everything that can't be hidden by a buttoned collar is an angry red, the wounds larger than they were when inflicted, a couple of them starting to feel hot to the touch and yellowish with the early signs of infection. He doesn't look at them, really, doesn't think about them except for how they bring him back into the now.
The dreams change for the worse. He dreams of hearing Merlin's voice in his ear - Galahad - Harry - what the heck is going on? - turning to see him there, slashing his throat open because he wants to. Watching helplessly from another continent as Eggsy's hands are committed to the same sins. Leaving the church and killing Valentine's men, his right-hand woman, the man himself, because he simply can't stop.
The food stops coming. It won't be the first time he's lost all knowledge of when his next meal is coming. He has fruit stockpiled, and chocolate, and syrup. For the first few days he resolves to simply go without, cut down on his exercise regime, and then resort to minimal rations if the problem goes unresolved.
On Tuesday morning he exchanges nods with Merlin where he's sitting reading in the lobby, unaware of the blood spotting through his shirt, just barely visible beneath the leaf of his collar.