Chapter Text
It's dark.
Even ignoring the metaphorical darkness so intertwined with human nature and focusing on the most concrete sense of the word, there are many different kinds.
There's night in the countryside, like Harold remembers from his youth, not a deep dark but one tempered by moon and stars, perhaps a lone dog barking in the distance. So different from that are the sleepless small hours in the city, eternally lit by streetlights and neon signs and passing cars, where darkness lurks in sinister corners and alleyways.
There's the serene darkness of his own bedroom at the end of a long day, with John asleep by his side, barely visible with the lights off, but obviously there, his weight on the mattress, his skin against Harold's, the soft sound of his breathing. That darkness is so precious, so magical, that Harold barely dares to breathe himself for the fear that it will shatter.
Then, there is this: a darkness so deep that he has rarely experienced such, whether considering the concrete or the metaphorical.
The staircase up to the door leading out of the cellar, eight steps in total, is an insurmountable obstacle in his present state. The door also fits its frame so seamlessly that no light escapes, because he hasn't seen it at any point, even though the sun must've set and risen at least once during his time here.
The darkness is so impenetrable that it makes no difference whether his eyes are open or closed. If he holds out his hand in front of his face, his brain tells him he can see it, but he knows that's a hallucination; the most dull and mundane one there is. He obviously cannot see, when there isn't a single stray photon's worth of light.
There is endless time for regret in the dark.
He'd thought, after he lost Nathan and Grace and the entire life that he used to have back then, that afterwards, when he died, too, it would be easy, because he'd have nothing more left to lose. Now, he finds that's no longer true. He never expected it, but somehow, he's managed to rebuild his life in a way he couldn't have imagined.
It wasn't planned, and he can't take credit for it; a lot of it was serendipitous. He couldn't have expected to become so close to John. When John found Bear, that was like another piece falling into place, one that Harold never would've known to miss or to ask for, but that nevertheless somehow slotted into their life perfectly.
When they confessed their feelings for each other, when they kissed for the first time, it seemed like the most natural thing, something that had only been waiting to happen.
For many glorious months, he had all those things, but now, he's going to lose them, too—or perhaps he should say that they're going to lose him.
If only he'd been more cautious, he thinks, once again.
One would think that after several years spent working on numbers, he would've learned how thin the line could be between a victim and a perpetrator. In this case, that number was Mr. Ford, a young man skittish because he was trying to escape from a stalker, who badly misinterpreted Harold's intentions. That may have been the last mistake Harold ever makes.
It happened so fast that Harold had no chance to react. The young man pulled out a knife and lunged at him, managing to sink it just below his ribs. While Harold was still stunned by the pain and shock and suddenness of it, Mr. Ford hauled him to the doorway leading to this cellar and pushed him down the stairs.
He imagines Mr. Ford must be long gone by now, the cabin by the cellar quiet and abandoned. He must've left Harold here assuming that if he wasn't dead, he would be soon.
Harold isn't sure whether it makes him lucky or unlucky that the wound Mr. Ford delivered him proved not be instantly fatal. He's been lying here, in the dark, bleeding and in pain, for hours, for days—he doesn't know anymore.
He will die eventually, of course, but it seems like it will take a very long time, and it might be from a combination of things, not just blood loss alone.
In the beginning, when he still had hope, he tried to be proactive. After the initial debilitating shock had settled down, he got his phone out, but even though it had survived his fall, there was no reception out here, let alone Wi-Fi, and even less so in an underground space like this.
He managed to get up, even though it was excruciating. In addition to the constant, bright pain of the stab wound, he had also injured his leg tumbling down the stairs—the good one, of course, because his luck had run out today in every possible way. Just trying to stand up nearly made him pass out, and he needed every ounce of resolve he could muster to make it to the top of the stairs. The complete lack of light made his dizziness worse, and he had to lean heavily on the walls to stay upright.
Like he expected, the door turned out to be barred from the outside, and there was no more cell signal at the top of the stairs than there was at the bottom.
He has no way to get a message out. Shouting for help would be pointless; the next house is miles away.
After making his slow way back down the stairs, he knew that he wouldn't be able to do that little trek again, too weak from the blood loss. Not that he has any reason to try, either.
For all his smarts and skills, Harold has been bested by a nervous twenty-year-old, and he has no way out of the situation.
He should've told John where he was going. That was such a stupid, careless omission on his part. But John was busy elsewhere, taking care of Mr. Ford's actual stalker, which they assumed to be the more dangerous task, and Harold thought he could handle this.
He doesn't believe that John can find him, not anymore. Not soon enough. If John had caught Mr. Ford and gotten this location from him, surely, he would've arrived already.
Harold closes his eyes and drifts off, and the part of his mind that's weak and afraid and desperately tired hopes that this will be the last time, the end to this deep dark that is devoid of all hope.
He wakes up to something brushing against his hand.
When he flinches, there's a sound of small feet skittering away on the stone floor. A rat, perhaps, or a mouse, he can't tell. It's not a pleasant idea that once he is gone, he may feed a whole pack of them.
Surely, it won't be long, now—or perhaps he's already dead. He's not a spiritual man, but if there was a hell, he imagines it could be just like this. Not fiery and loud with screams of torment, but isolated, quiet, cold—so cold that he's shivering—and perfectly dark.
He tries to shift, to sit up against the wall, to show to the rodents that he's not a lump of dead meat quite yet, but it's a mistake. It sends a terrible stab of pain through his gut and chest and makes his head spin in a most nauseating manner.
His vision doesn't fade away, because he can't see anything to begin with, but his consciousness flees, yet again.
The next thing he's aware of is a blindingly bright light above him.
For a moment, he thinks that he's seeing things. Maybe this is the end. He knows that dying people may experience a portal or a white light or both, just like the rectangle he sees floating above him, cutting a bright path through the darkness.
There's a shape silhouetted against the light, a tall human figure, and the first impression in Harold's half-conscious mind is that it must be an angel.
When the angel speaks, it even evokes God's name, but it's not some religious message. It's a very human voice, dearer to Harold than any other, even if it sounds unusually high-pitched.
"Harold! Oh, God. Don't move, I'm coming."
It's not an angel, but something far better—and just as fitting, when it comes to such evocative imagery.
Suddenly, Harold is sure that everything will be all right. Even if John may only see himself as a creature of darkness, he is, nevertheless, the brightest light that Harold has known since that day when he lost almost everything.