chapter four
Bathe was easy. Dinner wasn't.
Now, it wasn't because he can't make something for himself to feed on. ( he's still a capable adult, you know. ) It's because he doesn't really feel that hungry. And to be honest, the lack of wants to comsume food are slightly higher than the need to do so. That would explain why he's standing at the entrance of the kitchen, staring at the wooden table like and idiot, yeah?
He loves food. Sure. That's a fact. But sometimes, that term just doesn't sit well with him, yeah? Sometimes, he doesn't feel like eating. Sometimes, when the shame of his slim, lengthy body, of the scary amount of freckles that painted him up like the result of some cruel spell turns people's skin into dots that burn, of the unsatisfaction in necessary supplies and numbers of himself turn into a goofy joke outnumbered the rational intelectual ability; and the old ways of just lashing out and putting down everybody doesn't help anymore , he gets this kind of feeling.
And Merlin, how much he's thankful for his friends never let him completely drown in this.
It was in the past.
How about now?
He had learnt to accept his body, and it's been a good while since he had actually grossed out, merely looking at his own reflection. He was making progress. He was becoming better. And when he finally moved in with Hermione, his 'mione, he thought he had everything.
Such a shame how things turned out.
So here he is, leaning on the doorframe, looking into where was filled with scent of food and laughs and jokes, where every negative feelings seemed to be blocked out, where happiness trully existed- wondering what the hell he was doing.
He just doesn't want to eat. And how horrifying is it, to hear such admittion from him.
.
Eventually, he managed to get his empty stomach filled. At the end of the day, he was still alive, full, even; not as wreck as he thought he'd be after he seen her go. Does that mean something? It has to, hasn't it? They've been friends for life, been married for four whole years, and has been together for far too long for him to even bother to remember when and how it started. Yet her absence seems to had no affect on him.
Her absence did nothing to his life. Her absence did not hurt him, told him to skip meals ( he didn't, he wonder how ), told him to drown his sorrow with liquor ( if he can even stand that taste on his tounge, but he guesses anything's better than an empty mouth, isn't it? He needs something to focus on. ), told him to trash his apartment, told him to live the way he knows he shouldn't. Her absence did nothing of that, none.
But her absence seems to hurt him. Mentally. Her absence sent him into somewhere he doesn't know, her absence made he stares into space, her absence kept him from going mad from everything, instead locking him up inside an invisible cage, where the thoughts of his could visit him in a daily basic, further weighing him down with its constant presence. Her absence did not hurt him physically, no, it's all in his head, it's all just thoughts, and those thoughts are what torturing him.
Her absence makes he thinks. And he hates thinking. He hates doing what he's not good at, loathes looking up all of the mistakes he'd made in the past and once again, force him to admit that he is wrong. No, don't make he do it again. For once in his life, his bravery in facing the greatest danger of all time, his loyalty to those whom he loves, couldn't fill up the hole of his, for him to move foward.
Because he had made such a big mistake. He had fail, such an important person, that he scared he'll break once he did that.
So no, don't let him do that. Don't let him look up to his past, for he couldn't find out any reason to forgive himself, nor let him continue to breathe.
.
It's bedtime.
He's changing his bed sheets and pillowcases. Busy himself with all this colourful little things, and try to not let his mind wander somewhere else. It's too dangerous to.
He changed everything by hand. Not sure why he didn't give in to the convenience of magic, instead procasinating his sleeping schedule by doing this, but that's what he did. Everything by hand. Just like a Muggle did.
Just like his wife would.
Ah, not again. Mentally scolding himself for letting his focus slip, he brought all the old ones to the basket in the bathroom, stuffed it up carefully before return to the bedroom again, turning off the lights as he goes.
The bedroom's now only lit by the small lamp on the nightstand. But dim light ease him. He then gets to the bed, lift up the blanket so he doesn't sit on it, and later when he sleeps, he doesn't need to do more work to gets comfy under that, although he doubt he'd get any when all his thoughts are keeping him conflicted. Well, actually, the absence of his thoughts is what keeping him awake. At least when he had something in mind, he could tired himself to sleep, but now he doesn't, and it's damn hard to do anything with an empty head and quite too aware mind.
So he stares at the ceiling, blanky, just like he always did on those sleepless night. And just as how it goes, his thought starts to knock on his door again. It wanders. From those memories in his past, to those happened just recently, even something in the present. His stupid mind starts to whisper in his ears.
He wonders what is she doing right now.
He wonders if she's sleeping soundly, surrounded by those whom trully love and cherish her, get comfy in the cozy bed she'd make. He wonders if she had enough pillows in that bed, if the blanket that shielding her from the cold is thick enough, if the texture of the bedsheets are soft enough, so it wouldn't makes she feels itchy when she shifts around. He wonders if the room's dark enough, the window is close carefully enough, so all the noise from the outside can't make she joilt awake. He wonder is she has finally found what she wants, finally got what she deserves, finally be able to let out that sigh of relief that she had to kept inside her lungs for such a long time, when she goes.
He wonders if it makes her life easier, being away from him. Cause it seems like his presence only worsen the situation.
Any way, he hopes she's sleeping soundly, and not be kept from the rest she should've gotten long ago, just like him right now. He wants her to rest.
Oh.
The words hits him quite hard.
He wants her to rest. He repeat in his mind, tugging the blanket closer. He wants her to rest.
Such simple thing he should've said. He wants her, to rest. To let all of the things that's keeping her from relaxing down, and to rest. Because he was there. He can handle them for her. He should've handled it for her.
Had he ever realized, that she was there for him all the time, and it wasn't just something he could take for granted?
Has he ever realized, he has never been not cared for?
Has he ever, not been taken care of?
Shaky fingers found their way to the button of the lamp, and he shuts the light down.
No. No, he didn't.
It's too late.