*
1:56
Sweat thickens on his forehead. Slides across his cheekbones. Drips off his chin. Don't think he doesn't notice.
Keep running, keep running, I have to keep running. Faster, faster, I have to keep in shape. It's off season. I have to keep up. Keep ahead.
1:57
Well-muscled arms move in a steady rythm to match his legs, thumping repeatedly on the moving rubber track.
Faster faster, you know you can do better than that. Push, Oliver, push, you're not tired. You can't be tired. You've gone further than this before and you know it. Push.
1:58
The seconds tick by on the timer, green digits flashing on the tredmill's control panel. Keeping time and balance, keeping hope.
Faster, push, you can do better. You cannot be tired. Faster, you shit, you little cunt, you can't even reach your goal, can you? Faster, you'll never be ready for the games.
1:59
His legs shake, warning him to stop ar they'll stop for him. But they are accustomed to being ignored.
Move, you worthless little fuck! Go go go! You'll never amount to anything, you can't even win a fucking Quidditch cup, what good are you? You can't even fucking win at what you're good at. You don't deserve to play, you don't deserve to LIVE. You useless, lazy, self-pitying little vermin. Fucking MOVE.
2:00
The tredmill slows. His legs slow. His breathing slows. His mind slows. The world slows.
Two hours. Two fucking hours. Nothing. You're doing two and a half tomorrow, Oliver. Two and a half. It's nothing. You're nothing. Fucking NOTHING, you hear? Not even shit. Nothing.
His towel is clean. Too clean for his face. Too clean for him. He looks at the control panel, the green flashing numbers. Two. It feels so small. He presses the smooth plastic buttons, ignoring his vibrating muscles and dripping hair.
0:00
Another hour, Oliver. It's nothing, Oliver. Nothing.
"Nothing."
*
A/N: Review and tell me how depressing it is.