Afterlife: Reincarnation

41

September 5

HARRY

My eyes remained wide despite the pain behind them. They were dry, red and aching, but they still refused to close. Laying in my bed, I stared at the ceiling, my hands linked over my stomach. My body was aching, sore, abused and tired. I had been doing nothing but running through the streets of New York, sitting on Niall's couch, and staring at my phone for three fucking days.

And still, no word. Not a single indication of any kind had come from Africa. I had called NG the day before, just short of belligerent that I had still not heard anything on the whereabouts of Lane and her team. Of course, they had heard nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

How could this be? How, in this day and age, when we could send a man to the moon and track down a terrorist a world away, could we not find one small little blonde girl in the middle of Africa? The entire concept made no bloody sense to me. Surely, someone, somewhere, had seen them. Someone had to have a phone, or a computer, or a fucking plane so she could sky write. At this point, I would take anything so long as it meant that she was okay, and this void in my chest would ease.

I had spoken to her mother again the day before, and that couldn't have been more awkward. She was still distraught, and rightfully so, just as I was. But despite my own fears and tendency to freak the fuck out, I had to be calm, supportive, and assure her that I had complete confidence that we would find her. That she would come home, soon, completely unharmed.

It was all bullshit. Every word I said had been a lie. Because I wasn't sure. I had no way of knowing what was going to happen, what was happening over there, or what had even happened that night. No one fucking knew, and therefore, everything I said, all my assurances, were hollow.

She seemed to appreciate my effort, praising me over and over, and telling me how happy she was that Lane had found me. I felt like a fraud, a worthless fake not earning of her words. I had done nothing to keep her here, safe and sound. I had been too cowardly, too fucking concerned with my own uncertainty to just tell her that I was completely head over fucking heels for her before she left. I could have given her so much more, but I didn't. Instead, I waited until she was a world away, only then finding my strength. Only then did I push away my own pride, and tell her I wanted to be with her, no matter what.

And now, when she needed me, when I could actually do something of worth in this fucking life, I did nothing. I was useless, laying in this bed, safe in New York, while God knows what was happening to the love of my fucking life.

I shook my head at myself, my self loathing increasing as each hour passed without word.

It was a strange agony, this pain. I knew I felt it, and yet, I felt numb. Completely absent, almost apart from it. I had never felt this before; not even when my parents died. Not even as I sat in that chair, my nan clutching my hand so tightly I thought she would break it, staring at their coffins in the pouring rain. I held the umbrella for my nan, not waiting to hide myself from the rainfall. I wanted its cold, its cleansing. As I stared at the two, ornate, wooden boxes that held my parents, I had felt a hollow agony.

I had known what happened to them. I had been there, seen it, heard it, felt it. I knew every facet, both from experience and memory, and from accounts of family and friends afterwards. I knew it all, and it gave me some form of acceptance. No comfort, no understanding, but at least I knew.

Now, in this, I knew nothing. I had nothing beyond the images I had scene on the fucking computer screen. No way of knowing if she was safe, or in pain, or alone, or with her team. Nothing. That uncertainty, that not knowing, was far worse than anything I had experienced before.