Late

tick, tock

Everybody's used to the saying "time is of the essence." But how true is that statement?

The scientist would claim that precious minutes could be used to make a breakthrough discovery. The athlete would maintain that seconds can make the difference between first and third place. The student would say that those hours could ensure they have a proper future.

The lonely child would say that if somebody noticed their pain before, they would still be alive.

Welcome to their story.

You are the character North. You are in a dream. Your mother died while giving birth to you, twelve years ago.

Four hours left.

Michael's hand drifts towards the pen on the glass desk, picking it up. Even his drunken vision can see the heading he wrote while sober.

Dear North:

As his shaking hand makes contact with the paper, his hands win the fight with his weakened brain. The fingers release the pen, and it falls from his grasp, the nib detaching itself from the impact. He suddenly remembers that he left the syringe in the dining room. But before he can go and retrieve it, he suffers from a blackout.

"No..." you whisper as you attempt to reach him, "no... Dad... be strong. For me. For mum."

Michael doesn't receive your heartbreaking message. He's sleeping off the alcohol. Behind him, the broken pen carves something into the floorboard:

Three hours left.

Michael comes to. His vision is blurred. He can feel the pain from hitting his head on the coffee table as he fell. He is unaware that you are practically watching him, and that you are hoping desperately that it is all your imagination.

Your father, Michael, stumbles to his feet. Horrible luck; he awoke before the alcohol could make its way out of his system. Instead, he coughs and remembers that you are expecting a letter from him. He makes his way to the dining table but realizes the pen is broken. He scours the kitchen drawers for a writing utensil... to find knives, peelers, and pans. He is unaware that he is in an area of the house where food is cooked.

When he sees his reflection in the knife, he is horrified by his appearance. He decides to retrieve the syringe but then concludes that it really is a long walk to the bathroom. Michael walks to the fridge, before slamming his face into the reflective surface; he'd give anything to become sober, to see his child. To see you.

The impact with the fridge knocks him out for the fourth time that day, the second since he drank the beer. You see words appearing in the fridge...

Two hours left.

His eyelids flutter open after an hour. The atmosphere is heavy. He doesn't want to keep going like this, wanting to do something, then changing his mind.

He lies down on the couch, his spirits down. Nothing can lift them. He doesn't see the knife from earlier writing a message on the carpet.

One hour left.

He sits, motionless, on the couch. His mind is foggy, his throat burns, and his eyes water. The messages just keep rolling in. His hands drift towards the floor near the dining table... not for the pen. No, for a knife.

Half an hour left.

Fifteen minutes left.

Five minutes left.

Two minutes left.

The knife makes its way towards his chest. His hands are closed around the handle. The movement is his. Completely his brain, his brain controlled by the alcohol.

You jerk awake, breathing heavily. You fumble around and pick up your wand. You tell yourself it was only a dream. Then, something makes your heart stop.

Your lovely eagle feather quill is writing something on your textbook. You jump to your feet, horrified. The ink pot is closed, yet the ink flows over the paper in a smooth fashion to form the sentence that makes your stomach clench and bile rise up in your throat.

One minute left.

Just like that. 

You don't go and find your Head of House. You don't go and find your Prefect, either. You just sit there, motionless. Nobody looks for you; you have no friends. Pain is your friend now.

Your classes feel like torture. The other girls in your dormitory laugh and play games, their voices echoing in your ears, their happiness stirring emotions within your broken heart. The boys attempt to dump water on each other's heads, their childhood still there, their lack of maturity inflicting jealousy upon you. It's like any other day...

With the exception being that you are alone.

Your teachers continue on with their jobs as they demonstrate spells and potions. Your classmates move along the steady treadmill as they prepare for the year-end exams. You feel like you've reached a dead end. There isn't anything left in the world for you, is there?

You stop eating, oversleeping, spending lunch and dinner in the library. Your body begins to deteriorate. Your beautiful hair falls out in clumps while you attempt to mediate in the bathtub, reminding you of your loss. Those who put up with you before Michael's death completely ignore you after your cheekbones begin to poke out, your skin turns the colour of slush. After you bump into a girl, she even bothers to tell you that she would slap you if your bones wouldn't cut her.

That is the last straw. For you.

It is another Hogsmeade trip, the third one since the death of your father, the second one since his funeral. Instead of walking down to the Great Hall, you make your way up to the Owlery. Your book is in your hand; in it contains the instructions on how to cast the Killing Curse. Your left foot steps up... then your right. Then your left. It's like a game. A pattern.

"Wait, North, wait up!" A boy clad in Hufflepuff robes runs up to you. He is the son of your neighbour. Another Muggle-born. He looks concerned as his eyes sweep your face, the bane of my existence. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah," you babble, "I'm just going to get my owl. I need to send a letter, you know. Plus, I'm kind of tired..." Your voice trails off.

"If you're sure..." he says carefully, but before he leaves, he holds your hands in his. "Meet me at eleven o'clock in the Clock Tower, will you? We need to talk."

"Mm..." you say as he disappears around a corner. "Well, you'll find me. In a different form, I might add. And maybe not at Clock Tower."

You proceed up to the Tower and solve the riddle, your words seeming foreign. They don't sound like you. They sound like the piece of you that died when your father did. You take your wand and blast the window open. The wind nearly knocks you over as it attempts to play a game, but you refuse to play. Knowing you only have seconds before somebody would find you now that you've broken the window, your eyes sweep the book one last time.

You are a powerful magical being. You never knew that. You direct your wand at your temple and scream the incantation.

There's the powerful flash of green... and your body falls through the window, your wand slipping out of your hand... you land with a loud thump in the middle of a Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

Your teachers are confused as your body is taken down the aisle during your funeral. Your uncles and aunts weep, praying for a miracle. The Hufflepuff boy just sits there, frozen. Time seems to have stopped for him. He is wondering that perhaps if he'd prevented you from leaving... he could still hear your voice today.

Perhaps... you would still be sitting right next to him.

He regrets not reaching out earlier. Even if you rejected him... he could direct you to other people, other services that could allow you to recognize that you weren't alone. That pain is temporary.