Searching Light (Remus Lupin)

32: Deep-Rooted Damage

Amber's P.O.V.

Holly used to ask me if I was scared. Scared of myself, of my power, of my ability to switch off my emotions. I always thought it was silly that she would ask me as often as she did; but I know that she just needed to hear me say that I wasn't scared and that I was okay with my new self. I never was okay with it, and I was always scared, but I never let her know that. I always lied; I was scared all the time. All of that has changed.

On the morning of May 3rd, I wake up suddenly in my London apartment. It's tiny and stupid and old. The paint is peeling and the walls and floors are all messed up from water damage. The soft pitter of rain is audible through the thin walls and the grey clouds are visible through the window out of the corner of my eye.

The air I inhale inches down my throat and into my lungs. It tastes dry and stale, like an unsalted, expired saltine. Part of me wanted to lay there forever, completely still, breathing in the stale air, watching the grey light that bleeds into my crappy apartment change before me. The other part tells me to get up, that I had things to do. The latter part lies: I have absolutely nothing to do. I don't care anymore. Not about anything. I feel absolutely nothing.

Eventually I rise slowly. I shuffle to the coffee pot, heating the water inside it by pressing my hands to the bottom. I pour myself a large amount inside of a bowl. With my coffee, I sit at a little dining table next to the window and look down at the London streets. I stare at the solid tops of umbrellas deflecting rain, moving steadily through each other. Cars honk, people shout, music plays somewhere. Workers hustle to their jobs, steaming tea threatening to spill in hand. What a shitty looking day this one will be. Another day of feeling absolutely nothing.

*****

London is fine. It's fucking grey and rainy, but I kind of like that. I like to listen to the rain, pattering on my window. Most nights at sunset I watch the city lights turn on, the buildings sparkle with fluorescents.

Nights can be exciting. The beer is good, the music heavy. Pubs get jammed packed. There's one below my apartment, called the Red Man. It's actually a pretty big deal - sometimes famous bands come and play there. A few days ago I saw a poster advertising the Ramones playing at the Red Man today; I like punk. It's ok. I decide to go. 

I have a limited closet, mostly consisting of blacks and grays. I tie my boots up high and line my eyes with black makeup. My hair is dark and curly by consequence of rainwater. I stare blankly into my mirror, wondering aimlessly. A little voice whispers to me, what would Remus think of you like this?

And then I remember that I don't care enough to pursue the subject.

Heavy punk fills the air. It's unbelievably loud and a little obnoxious, but the alcohol I've already consumed lightens the air. It's dark with rapidly moving colored lights throughout the audience, who jump and sing along and shout and dance. Across the floor, a mop of black, curly hair sits atop a tall, lanky man. Tattoos decorate his arms and what's visible of his chest from his t shirt. He dances alone; eyes closed, body swaying. Everyone else is dancing with someone, drinking from their glass, yelling, singing, jumping, but the man simply sways, enjoying not just the music, but the energy of the room. It seems that way, anyway.

I walk over, a bottle of tequila in hand that I stole from behind the bar. He notices me, and shoots me a dashing smile. I feel a rush of warmth between my legs. It's been so long since I've had sex; my body aches for it. I may have no emotions, but I'm still human. Technically.

"Wanna dance?" He shouts over the music, continuing his dazzling smile. I take a sip of tequila and smile back, setting it down on a nearby table. I move closer and touch his arms; biceps bulk between my fingers and I drag my hands along his smooth skin. He grips my waist, swaying my hips with his. I feel magic; I suck the warmth from his arms in streaks with my fingertips, and he almost calls out in surprise, then gazes at me.