Rosie ⎮ Tom Riddle

Forty Two

Tommy

  Tom's heart pounded as he found himself standing in a sunlit meadow, the grass a vivid dream that would take weeks to wash out of his memory beneath his feet. The sky overhead was a perfect blue, dotted with fluffy clouds that drifted lazily across the horizon just like in a children's storybook. The scene felt impossibly peaceful, the air crisp in his senses as he tilted his head and looked out far beyond what he could ever truly imagine.

  Because there they were. Her long blond hair, wavy and untamed in the midday breeze. Her smile so bright it compared to the suns rays hitting and warming his body. The little boy she chased after, dark and unruly hair, beautiful grey eyes just like his mothers that connected as he stared back at her. 

  Her laughter rang out like a melody, warm and full of life as she called after the boy, following him through the tall grass as he refused to go yet, refused to let the happiness of the day fade away into nothing just yet. The boy's giggles were infectious, his small legs moving as fast as they could while he glanced back at his mother with pure delight. She caught up to him, sweeping him into her arms and spinning him around, both of them laughing as if the world outside this meadow didn't exist.

  Tom watched them, his chest rising and falling tightly with emotions breaching his surface in a way he had never understood and never tried to understand. It was all so perfect, so achingly beautiful, that he knew it was too good to be true. He could feel the chill in his body when She turned around to face him, her eyes shining with a love that was unmistakable. Everything they had been through to get to this moment was worth it. Anything to be here, seeing that smile, the kind of smile that reached into the depths of his soul and made him believe, if only for a moment, that everything was going to be alright.

  The boy wriggled in his mothers arms, reaching out towards Tom with chubby hands. "Daddy!" he called out, his voice filled with innocent joy. He smiled briefly, looking at the boy who yes, brought him happiness, but his eyes always wandered back to the woman who had given him such joy. All of it was her, every single phantom crumb of his being was dedicated to this woman, and refused to take a single care for anything else.

  Tom took a step forward, his hand reaching out instinctively, yearning to be a part of this moment. He wanted to reach out for the son Rosalie had given him, perhaps he would grow to love him as he had grown to love Rosalie, the extension of themselves, The boy would be how Tom could learn self love if at all possible.

  But just as his fingers brushed against the boys, just as she looked up into his eyes as she held his son, their little family, the scene began to dissolve, the vibrant colours bleeding away like ink in water, ashy particles flying through his mind as Rosalie's smile faded, her laughter silenced, and his sons joyful cries echoed into nothingness.

  Tom bolted upright in bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His heart hammered in his chest, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like his own shadow clung to him in the heat. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering sense of loss that had settled over him. He reached for the picture in his side table, pulling it out with such desperation you might've thought it was a calming drug he was reaching for. 

  He stared at it for a moment, tracing the frame of the tattered photograph so gently. He stared at her face, at her pregnant stomach, at her smile, at her eyes that looked away from the camera. Tom wished in that moment he had told her to face her, so he right then could see her full beauty. He let her soak into his mind before placing it back, more calmly this time, into his side table. Tom shook his head and leant back against the headboard of the bed, swallowing hard as he wiped away the cold sweat.

  "Fuck," he muttered to himself, the word heavy with frustration and despair. The dream was too real, too vivid. It was like he had been there, like it had really happened. If Rosie hadn't died three years ago, if his son hadn't died three years ago, would they look like that? Would they hold the same happiness, the same warmth?