After the End: Book 3

32. Disappointing Muse

Harry's POV

I woke up from my nap feeling shakier than ever and decided it was time to step away from the tweens for a little while. I didn't feel any more rested and my mind was aching and tired still. Oliver was already down for the night and the kitchen smelled like burnt muffins in a scent that was slowly permeating it's way out to the rest of the flat. Someone had thrown a blanket on me again.

The girls were both in the kitchen waiting when I made my way in there. They just kind of looked at me when I walked in rubbing my eyes. Sobriety was pounding in my head and I was very simply feeling shitty, so I didn't say anything, instead digging through the fridge for fast dinner inspiration. I settled on leftover lasagna and Phoebe wrinkled her nose at me.

"I'm not feeling inspired," I muttered, setting the Tupperware before them. "Go nuts."

I started back out towards the exit, satisfied nobody was going to starve in my absence. I felt like I was walking with my head under water. The grogginess creeping in was highly unpleasant.

"Wait, where are you going?" Daisy rose to face me.

"Home," I answered stiffly. "I'm going to work down in the music room."

Lie.

"Right now?" Daisy questioned. "Isn't it late?"

I glanced at the clock. It was only a bit past 9. I'd been restlessly asleep for several hours, but it was still much earlier than my regular bed time.

"Not for me," I argued. I watched them both look at me quizzically, but I didn't stop walking. I padded back into the living room and saw the leather bound sketch book exactly where I'd left it on the coffee table. I approached, picking it up gingerly like it was a bomb. As long as I was going home to be away from the girls, I figured I might be able to bring myself to open it.

I looked over my shoulder to see if the girls were coming in my pursuit. I could hear them just barely talking amongst themselves, although I couldn't hear the words. They were still in the kitchen.

Free to go, I wandered to the elevator and hit the recall button. The entire time, my face stayed glued down on the leather bound book in my hand. When the elevator dinged and the doors parted, I wandered in and put in my code, still staring at it.

It didn't feel right to be holding it. She had spent so much effort trying to keep its contents private. It seemed to be the only thing in the world that she ever felt embarrassed about. She didn't keep anything private from me, except this. Now she was gone and I was here and I was holding it and she wasn't here to tell me no.

The elevator opening to my floor startled me because I'd receded so far into my mind already. When I composed, I pushed into my flat and then paused in the middle of the living room just standing there. The brightness didn't put me off for once. I'd grown more accustomed to it as I began making semi regular ventures down. I still felt the same pit in my stomach at the silence and the emptiness, but I had grown to think that was just a never ending side effect of standing alone in a home designed for two. The place felt hollow. It made sense that the hollow would swallow me too from the inside out.

I stared at the book for another minute and then set it down on the sofa and walked over to the Bluetooth speaker, connecting my phone again so that it would make the silence a little less loud. I didn't bother choosing a sad song again because I couldn't imagine that would make my hands shake any less than they were. I shuffled it on something random and then set my phone down out of my own reach to avoid impulsively changing it.

I approached the book again, stared at it and then changed my mind and walked away towards the bedroom. I ignored the closed art room door like always as I passed. I was too twitchy. I hadn't taken anything in 12 hours at least and I wasn't interested in letting it go any longer, especially considering I was about to make myself intensely sad by opening that fucking book.