Devil's Desire [h.s.]

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Stop it," I grinned, leaning back on my heels. The paintbrush between my fingers rested idly at my side. It'd been poised and ready for the last few minutes, my muse before me keeping it from ever drawing a stroke across the canvas. "I can't paint you like that. You have to stay still."

"Why?" The man across from me asked. His dimple popped out as he smiled. "I hear the best artists can paint a moving target."

"You're saying I'm a bad artist?"

"I'm sayinggggg–" the voice before me sing-songed, "–that I have a very hard time sitting still when I'm near you. Time seems to slow when we're together so I gotta stay on my toes to remind myself you're real. That we're real."

"Are we real?" I asked casually, taking note of his words, and lifted my brush to the canvas despite the fact that he still hadn't begun to sit still. The bracelet on my wrist glinted in the light. I knew there were words on it, but I couldn't quite remember what they said. Everything felt a bit hazy. The corners of my mouth flicked into a frown as I tried to focus on the outline of the man in front of me, only to realize that that was a bit blurry as well. "Are we real?" I asked again.

"'Course," Harry shrugged. He grinned at me. Things cleared up.

I grinned back. Ah. There it was. The reality. My reality. My Harry.

I began to paint. "It's been a while since I've painted clouds," I admitted in a small, wistful breath, gesturing with my free hand to the soft, white expanse of fluff we were both sitting on. The blue sky canvased Harry from behind like something out of a novel. "I used to paint them all the time when I was first learning."

Harry angled his head to the side. It looked for a moment like he was going to say anything until, "Yeah? Tell me about that."

"About when I was first learning to paint?"

He nodded.

"Well..." I sat back further on my heels, letting the paintbrush hang stagnant for a moment. "My dad taught me when I was younger. He'd always told me I had the eye of an artist."

The mention of my father seemed to call upon a shrill ringing sound that suddenly sounded out and I instinctively dropped the paintbrush, reaching up to cup my ears. Harry appeared before me in an instant, like he'd just magically appeared there, and looked my face up and down with concern.

"I'm okay," I responded, hearing his question before he'd even spoken it. "I just... miss my dad, I think. Worrying about how they're doing – my parents – and how long it's been since I've seen them gives me a bit of a headache."

It was true. I missed my dad a lot, as much as I'd refuse to admit it. And even though it felt like it'd been forever since I'd heard from either of his parents, his voice rang clear in my mind as though I'd heard it as early as this morning.

"River," I could hear him saying. "My River?" Like it was a question. "My little lake? My little babbling brook?"

Was he talking about me? I wondered. Did he even remember who I was? Is that why he had to clarify it?

I physically shook my head to clear away the thought, though it seemed to linger even as I opened my eyes. Every thought I'd been wanting to evade seemed to do the same recently. Like they were stuck before me in a frozen display, sticking themselves to every free inch of my brain like a piece of bubble gum somebody had shoved beneath a park bench.

Disgusting, I thought, hoping to pry the memories free, not wanting to make myself sick trying to unstick the used gum that wasn't meant to ever be touched by another set of human fingers again.

"Baby?"

I glanced up. Harry was back a few feet before me, positioned on the cloud, ready to be made into a portrait at my hand. He sounded sad.

"What's wrong?" I asked quickly.

He frowned. "Nothing. I'm worried about you. Where'd you go, my sweet girl?"

I gave him a half-grin, my brows furrowing slightly. "I'm right here?"

Harry blinked once. Then twice. He smiled sadly.

"Harry," I mouthed, though the word didn't seem to leave my tongue. "What's wrong?" I asked again. My heart had begun to beat fast and I could feel – physically feel – the panic rising in my chest. The dread. "Harry–" my breathing picked up slightly. "I'm–what's going on?"

My ears began to ring again. I dropped the paintbrush and stumbled backwards. Screwing my eyes shut, I just prayed that the edge of the cloud wasn't anywhere near as I sunk to my knees and hugged them to my chest, willing myself to breathe.

"Harry," my mind was thinking. "He was going to die. He is dead."

But was that true? No. It couldn't be. He was right here. He was with me –

"I'm with you."

My eyes whirled back open. There he was. Beside me. Knees hugged to his chest all the same. He was grinning again. Like those earlier moments of panic had never happened. A curl had fallen over his eye. Instinctively, I reached forward to tuck it behind his ear, but he leaned backwards. His grin deepened.

"It's alright," he said. His voice seemed wistful. Almost far away. "I'm here. I'm always here with you."

It felt stupid to ask, but I did anyway. "You're not dead?"

The apples of his cheeks turned pink. "I'm here, aren't I?"

He was right. I wanted to feel relieved but couldn't find it in me. Instead, I just swallowed whatever other anxiety had been threatening to spew, and nodded.

"Where'd my paintbrush go?" I asked, my eyes flitting across the clouds. All of which were now bare. "And my canvas?"

"I'm here," Harry repeated again. I blinked a few times before turning to look at him, only to find he was glancing up at the sky. His own eyes glazed over for a beat before he repeated, "I'm here. I haven't left."

"I..." my mouth opened and closed. "I know you haven't. I see you. Harry–?"

He seemed to be going fuzzy. Like earlier, the edges of him were blurring.

All at once, the panic rose back up in my throat.

"No," the word came out rushed and I raced to get onto my knees. "No–Harry. Wait–" I scrambled to reach for him, resulting to a full-on crawl, realizing that the more he blurred, the further away he seemed. "Please." I shook my head. The clouds suddenly felt like concrete. Glancing down, my heart lurched to see that the ground was painted red. I was crawling on gravel. "Don't go–" my head flew back up – in the direction of the man suddenly fleeing. What was his name. "Please–" I knew I was crying now. Every part of me felt like it was in pain. "Please. Please, don't go. Don't leave me here alone–"

It was blinding. Worse than the concrete. Worse than the gravel. In the span of a moment, pain hit my shoulder so hard that I forgot about every other thing I'd been worried about. It crippled me. Knocked me backward and had me abandoning whatever I'd been crawling towards.

My breathing was shallow now. So shallow that my lungs were hardly able to fully expand.

Was I dying? Is that what this was?

Was I going to die–?

"River–"

There it was. That voice. That lovely, angelic, wistful voice.

It lessened the pain in my shoulder.

"River–"

I closed my eyes and willed the voice to fill me completely. Willed it to heal me. To make me whole.

"Riv–"

I wanted to speak. Wanted to answer to the voice. But I couldn't find it in me.

"Baby–"

Harry.

"I'm here. I'm always here."