Ablaze

11

My eyes flew open with a gasp, my mouth opening and closing frantically as I gulped for oxygen. Reeling from the sudden jolt in consciousness, I stayed fixated on the cement ceiling as awareness began to flow through my libs.

It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to my surroundings, my fingers clenching over my heart that was rapidly thumping. Harry seemed to have shifted me slightly on the bed, ensuring I was comfortable while passed out.

I was panting as the overwhelming memories bombarded me, my heart refusing to cease racing. My eyes still hadn't deviated from the ceiling, straining to make sense of rushing flashes of images.

Now that I had returned to reality, the denseness of the memories gruelingly weighed on my heart. My sanity was laboring to piece everything together, attempting to make sense of what had transpired.

My head throbbed as the regressed memories drowned through me, experiencing them so vividly in the third person.

Still unsure of how they had played out like a lucid dream, I pinched my chest and stomach to confirm that what was happening now was real. I aggressively twisted the skin on my arm with my fingers, proving that I was awake.

"What did you remember?" Harry's words were rushed, and I immediately drew similarities to the terrified Harry in my memories.

The vulnerability he possessed and openly shared with me.

I still had significant gaps in my memories, but I felt my childhood playing out in front of my eyes. Other recollections were flowing through, but they were less monumental. My neural pathways were making connections, firing along them as they unraveled more life experiences.

My brain still struggled to remember the events that played out after the night I was stabbed. I was only vividly shown the particular scene in the hospital and the one of me painting in my bedroom.

I reached my hand around my back, distressingly touching the now faded scar. When I challenged my Father about it, he only provided the excuse that it was appendicitis. He didn't say anything further, stating that it had burst one night and that I was rushed for emergency surgery. I had never bothered to look into it further, blindly following what he had recounted.

Once my panic began to alleviate, I took a few quivering breaths, pushing to absorb everything I had witnessed.

Now I finally understood why the sensations of Deja Vu were so fierce, how it felt as if I had known Harry. In truth, I had known Harry for a big chunk of my life, and from what I witnessed, we had shared a bond not many had been lucky enough to experience. Subconsciously, I had still known him throughout the past seven years, and the painting of the raven is a testament to that.

In a way, he had kept his promise that he would never leave. And, if I understood Harry even an ounce of what I once had, I doubted that the painting was his last attempt at subtle communication. I believed his tenacity wouldn't have given him respite, and he would have scattered vague clues that he hadn't left and hadn't given up on me.

Although it wasn't my choice, for those seven years, I had broken my promise to him. Allowing him to hold tightly to all the memories of us alone while I wasted away. I had been full of life, my arrogance and affection for Harry unbreakable. But, I had given up.

I couldn't imagine the pain he must have felt when I stumbled blindly into the Underground, and I hadn't recognized him.

Groaning, I finally shifted my eyes to focus on Harry beside me. He was crouched beside the bed, his brow creased in concern. His fingers were drumming on the sheets beside me, fidgeting and unsure what to do.