Nowhere In Particular // H.S.

Thirty-Nine: Go Home

I lock myself in the bathroom before Harry can get himself off of the floor. Charlie the goldfish is floating in the bag that's in my hand and I'm staring at the toilet. Suddenly my rush to get here is brought to a halt now that I've remembered the circumstances, and all I can do is stare at the water in the bowl, holding the bag with a dead fish above it.

To my surprise Harry hasn't followed me into the small bathroom, not that I gave him much of a choice. I held onto him for probably a half hour, slowly rocking, gently shushing... but my eyes kept moving up to look at the fish on the table in front of us and I knew I needed to deal with it before the sight could catapult Harry into even more of a mess. I didn't leave him in the best way possible. When it felt like I had the opportunity to slide from his hold, I took it and then I practically ran to the bathroom, not even looking back for a second.

With my hesitation though, I allow enough time for Harry to realize where I disappeared to, a loud series of knocks now hitting on the wood door that separates us.

"Greta," I hear his voice, deep and but still sniffly. "What are you doing in there?" he asks like he knows but that he wishes he didn't, because that'd mean Charlie the goldfish really is gone.

I don't answer him, still staring at the toilet with hopes that I'll gain enough courage to flush the fish before Harry takes any drastic measures and knocks down the door. My arm just shakes though and I don't make any progress, hearing the pounding of Harry's fists on the door in a rhythmic beat in my head.

"Greta," he says my name again, this time sounding more desperate. "Don't do it... please. I can't let you do it."

I almost say something about how it's a dead fish and we can't just keep it around floating in a bag, but the insensitive side of me is so small that the thought quickly passes through. Harry's reaction is obviously for reasons far beyond the fish, but I'm trying to convince myself if I can just flush Charlie the goldfish down the toilet some of the grief will disappear.

Harry's quickening knocks prevent me from having any optimistic thoughts of this though, my body turning around to stare at the door instead. I'm almost prepared for it to burst open to see a distressed, messy haired, red eyed from crying, Harry. But all I see is a white door.

"Just," he slows down, breathing out lowly so I can barely hear him through the wood. "Will you at least let me in? I want to at least be there when it happens."

I continue to stare at the door, silently, trying to forget that Harry's on the other side. That isn't possible though because he is there... always has been in a way. My mind goes back to a moment similar to this, with Harry knocking on the door because he needed to go "for a wee." That moment feels so far away from now, so innocent and simple... before everything became even more complicated than what I started out with. This memory is enough to shake something into me though and my hand reaches for the metal knob of the door, opening it, just like I did all those months ago.

On the other side is exactly the picture I put into my head, a messy haired, red eyed from crying, Harry. He's still sniffling and his hands are raised up like he's prepared to knock again, which causes him to startle when he realizes the door in front of him has moved.

I don't say anything to him, one hand holding onto the plastic bag with a dead fish and the other gripping onto the door knob like it will help something. He stares just stares back at me, breathing in deeply and sighing out just as loud. Words aren't necessary right now though... there's plenty enough conversation between our eyes.

Greta, I feel so broken, his eyes say to mine.

I know, Harry, mine say back to his.