Roy Harper can’t remember the last time he was sober.

He can’t remember much at all, to be fair. Not if he’d taken a shower in the last week, not his last few meals and definitely not the last few hits. Everything hurt too much if he thought too hard; his life was a total lie anyways.

How did one come to terms with the fact that they were nothing but a clone of some poor boy, that the life they’d lived wasn’t even supposed to be theirs, anyways?

The motel bed he’s lying in is disgusting— cheap, hard as a rock and probably covered in human liquids he doesn’t want to think too much about. He thinks it rather resembles his own state. It’s uncomfortably humid in the room; he’d paid $35 dollars to stay here, it’s to be expected there was no A.C.

He’s not spoken much— nothing except for the occasional scream of just sheer mental distress or a call to somebody who could bring him the next ‘distraction’ he needed.

So, when there is a knock on the door of his horribly sad motel room, he is almost too shocked to comprehend answering.