Bloom Again /James Potter/ ❁book 2❁

❁Chapter 8❁

Chapter 8

She was awake.

No.

Her mind was awake.

The dorm room, her dorm room engulfed with a black cloud rolling over the ceiling as though engulfing - suffocating her, trapping her in the dark black fog of the dream. She could sense it, sense him, a feeling that sent the sweat trickling down her head, that terrified her beyond belief but she couldn't move, she was trapped.

She was paralysed.

It wasn't something often, once or twice during the holidays when the overwhelming sense of stress and lack of sleep took over her and her body fell into a dark and peaceful slumber whilst her mind stayed on high alert, and the paralysis ensued.

She tried with all her might to lift a finger, just one finger, and she could feel the scream forming in the back of her throat but she couldn't move, she was stuck!

She wasn't sure if the wetness welling in her eyes was from the fear or from the frustration but she realised with more might to lift that one finger that it was both. The shadows lurked with her darkest fears and the black cloud rolled on the ceiling as though ready to attack, to stab her and hurt her and she was alone, she was weak and unguarded and if anything were to come into her room and hurt her then she couldn't save herself.

Helpless.

Just like that night when the man lurking in the shadows of her mind in visions creeping in the corner violated and abused and hurt her. She could feel it on her skin, the claws, the memories swiping through her mind in the moment of weakness that she couldn't do anything. The claws ran down her stomach in phantom memories and she was writhing beneath the hold of the paralysis that wouldn't move.

All she wanted was to run, to hide and seek comfort but she couldn't, she was trapped in the corners of her mind whilst her body failed to comprehend the world around her but she was aware and she couldn't feel anything other than invisible touches of the night she wished never to remember.

She had contemplated it, pulling the memory from her head so that she would forget, to live a life of oblivion but she couldn't do that, she couldn't give herself that blissful unawareness because it let her guard down. It could happen again, it could happen until she died but she wouldn't let it - not anymore, she was a fighter, she was strong.

She was alive.

She was on the track to recovery, and she knew it. She talked, she talked to Bertie and she hugged him so tightly she felt again, she felt when she kissed James, she felt when she rolled her eyes at Beau, and she felt the frustration when she thought of her friends.

She smiled, she felt that tug at her lips at the wink, the eye roll on instinct and the banter and the bickering between her and Beau. She felt the love she had for James, the warmth he emitted and the smoothness of his tone and she was at ease.

She liked that Bertie understood what she meant, that he could talk and talk and talk and no matter if her stare was blank, no matter if she was crying or frowning or sad with exhaustion on her face and hurt in her heart, he didn't need to be like that. Because she was alive and that was more than enough and she wanted him to treat her like always, and he savoured the moment that the amusement flashed in her eyes for a small moment and she shook her head or rolled her eyes or patted his arm because laughing was hard and painful, but she still loved her time with her friends.

She liked painting, she liked the messes that were slowly improving, that she could paint flowers on canvases from memory and they would look slightly similar. That the colours she used were a reflection of what she once was, the bright colours that she longed for and that she would get back in due time.