Reticent (h.s fanfic, punk Harry)

Chapter 43

RECAP:
Ophelia and Harry slept together and Ophelia saw bruises which Harry confessed to her about sleeping outside.

Harry's POV

I have this theory about death, and I suppose I've been having a lot of these, any theory or illusion of death to justify the erratic close to my mother's life. I suppose death is seen differently in every culture, or religion, but I'd read somewhere of the brisk idea of darkness. The theory of a lights out method after we pass on to the other world, if there was one. It was a harsh close to the chapter of living, simply darkness on the other side, like a dreamless sleep cycling, dark space after dark space. I'd read somewhere else, well in a lot of places about the theory of heaven and hell, I'd grown fond of that one, do good and good shall come to you, something like that. At the age of eleven I'd latched on that idea like a koala to a tree, I didn't understand the idea of death, I just felt something wasn't right. I knew my mother was dying, but somehow I couldn't process it. At the age of five I simply thought she would come back after some time, after the cancer was done with her. And then as the adolescent years hit me, death became imminent. My mother was leaving me, she wasn't coming back, the void wasn't filling up, I knew Anne would cease to exist one day, no trace of her in this world, except the rotting body lowering to the ground with dust and dirt draped over to share a condolence. Heaven seemed like a great place, and I knew mum would enjoy it. But back then I though of heaven as the sky, I'd thought Anne would sit on a cloud watching me, and I watch her, but now, I was watching down at the ground, with her body layers and layers beneath while she lay, probably decomposing by now.

There are thousands of theories, there's happy ones and not so happy ones, I'd like to believe the happy ones. And when I can't seem to do that, well I rely on my own mind, my own theories. It happened in the patio, sunroom, whatever it was called, and I looked at the dead flowers, wilting away, slowly crumpling like a paper drenched with coffee. They all seemed miserable, sighing on the ground, not even looking up at the sun. I looked at them and I realized something, they were all dead, they all died at the same time as Anne. Call me crazy, I'll even do it on my own, but they felt that void, the same that I did. If no one else shared the grief of her death with me, then they certainly did, the ones she took care of with such passion and pride. She'd looked down at them, and took care of them, and now it was the opposite, Anne was under these beautiful creatures so I believed undeniably that they were looking after her. They're soil wrapped around her like a warm blanket, and they nurtured her with their roots. She'd been there for them, it was them now. And no matter how crazy I may sound, I knew that the earth gave back everything it received, as the rose will make you bleed like knives when you go for the stem.

My theory, if nothing, made sense to me. I'd die a maniac if it meant I fought all the way to justify her death, to tell others what a wonderful person she was that even the earth sheltered her under the ground.

***

"So," the teacher spoke while he walked back and forth in front of the room, "some important notes for the final on Friday," he grumbled, sleep slowly lacing his voice. "I'll just put up some slides on the board. Follow along please."

The class groaned, pens laying limp in their loose fingers, working bare minimum to write down the notes, I didn't take anything. Common sense. But Ophelia aggressively wrote on her notebook, her head jerking up to the board and then back down to the paper laying in front of her scribbled in her writing all over the page. She wrote and wrote until the words on the screen changed to a flat tone from the teacher, slowly listing off the things that weren't written on the board.

All the while he drones on about the final, I focused on her, sitting beside me. She smelled... expensive, a type of smell that reminded me of rich whiskey aging beautifully with years, mixed with ice, and slowly burning a trail down my throat. She'd spread that smell over her new clothing she'd just brought in from her father's house, the blouse smelling closer to that sweet scent that completely took over my being over the night she'd stayed with me. Her neck smelled different, like lilac nectar spread over my fingers on a hot summer day. I wanted to bury my face just at the junction where her slender neck met her chin.  She seemed oblivious to my staring, however, her attention set on the teacher at the front of the room. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her hair tied perfectly in a ponytail, reminding me of the morning where she kept fussing with it until it was just as she wanted it. The pen ran over the paper like it was racing the ink, and I was sure later on her hand would surely start aching, she seemed not to care at all and just kept writing every word that came out of the teacher's mouth, her eyes went from her paper to the teacher with adept attention.