All I’d been doing for the last six weeks had been waiting. But I didn’t know for how much longer I could bear it. It wasn’t only the waiting — it was the cracks. How long did I have before those cracks became splits, fractures, and then complete breaks? Either way — if I sat and did nothing, I would fall apart.
So, as I sat alone in my room, staring out of the window at the leafless trees that surrounded the grounds of Hallowed Manor, I knew that I had to do something — anything that would break the monotony of being dead. It wasn’t like being in a book or a movie. There was no glamour to being immortal. It was a curse. And I had to do something until I was told what I needed to do to lift it.
My thoughts were broken by the sight of Potter below. Even though it was mid-January, and the temperature was close to zero outside, I could see him stripped to the waist as he raked the leaves, which had fallen onto the wide gravel drive, into a mushy pile. Potter was restless, just like the rest of us. I watched him as he worked. His face was ashen and hard-looking, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. I could see that although he was keeping himself busy, his mind wasn’t on the job at hand, but on something else. His eyes were dark, and he seemed to stare down at the copper and gold coloured leaves as if they weren’t even there.
On returning to the manor, I wondered if Potter and I would at last be together — just like other couples. Share the same bed, the same likes and dislikes — but that hadn’t happened. Any daydreams I might have had of us curled up together on the sofa watching movies, strolling hand-in-hand on long meandering walks had failed to materialise. At first we shared the same room — the same bed — but as the cracks started to appear in me and on me — so they started in our relationship. It wasn’t that I found myself loving Potter less, in fact, now free of The Hollows and the nightmare that I had journeyed over the last year, I felt as if I could breathe again — for a short time at least.
But the nightmares came — the girl forever being chased — her desperate escape — the school named Ravenwood — and deep inside of me, I knew there was trouble coming for me again. Just like how you know that a storm is brewing on a warm summer’s evening. The sky starts to darken, almost thicken. The atmosphere feels almost electric. That’s how I had started to feel, as if a storm were coming and I didn’t know when, from what direction, and if I could find shelter from it.
So gradually, Potter and I had stopped holding each other during the night. I would lay on my side, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he slept, his strong arms enveloping me. But gradually we had started to sleep apart, back to back, until eventually Potter moved out of my room and then from the manor, taking up residence again in the Gate House. Somewhere inside of me, where my cravings for the red stuff kept me from sleeping, I was grateful for that. If I were to be honest with myself, I didn’t know how long I could fight the urge — need — or was it pure desire, to sink my fangs into him and feed again.
But I missed him and my heart ached to think of him alone in the Gate House, so I often went to see him there, only to find him sitting quietly, deep in thought, and I would remember how we had shared our first kiss in that rickety shack. I would sit opposite him on the flea-bitten sofa and talk was light. But you know, I needed to be with him and I knew that he needed to be with me. Sometimes we lay before the fire that he had roaring in the hearth, and I would lie in his arms and fight the tears that stood in my eyes. But before the talk turned to anything meaningful between us, I would slip away, back to the manor, leaving him to his private thoughts.
It was as if just being together was enough, during those intimate moments we were showing how much we loved each other; but for whatever reason, words were more difficult to find when trying to express how we felt.
I knew in my heart that Potter was hurting and I suspected now that he was away from The Hollows, he had found time to reflect on what had happened there. The betrayal by his best friend, Luke and the death of Murphy, I figured, were weighing heavily upon his soul. And like Potter, now away from The Hollows, I too was able to look back on everything that had happened. I too had been betrayed by Luke — we all had. I’d lost my mother and Murphy had been like a father to me. Sometimes, I would stand alone in the quiet of the night before the mirror in my room and look at the maze of hairline cracks that covered me. I would stare at those little black fingers that wriggled at the tips of my wings, my claws, and fangs and knew that I truly had been cursed. So many times, as I’d lain in Potter’s arms before the fire in the Gate House, I had fought the crippling urge to tell him about the cracks that covered my body when in my half-breed form. But I just couldn’t tell him. I could see he was consumed by his own worries, doubts, and grief, and being back from the dead wasn’t easy to deal with — like I said — it isn’t like being in the movies.
So I sat at my window and watched him rake the leaves away, both of us lost to our thoughts. For how long I sat there, I don’t know — that is another thing about being dead — time kind of just stands still. Nights could seem to last fifty or sixty hours and days only moments. Like I’ve already said, the world had been shoved to the left a bit.
Eventually, Potter propped the rake against a nearby tree, and turning his back on the manor, he walked into the woods and disappeared from view, his head down. I wanted to go after him, so jumping from my chair, I left my room and the manor.