the blood in our future

Fill My Lungs With Water (I'll Breathe You Just the Same)

What good could it have been, running away to London and leaving everyone behind, if she hadn't managed to change anything?

She'd wanted to talk to herself from before her memory loss. Had wanted to ask past-her why she'd stayed, why she'd done things this and that way, but obviously, she couldn't. She was alone, with no one to relate to, with no one who would understand her. No one who would get why she was so achingly sad.

She'd cried, sometimes, when it had all gotten too much. When she'd felt like someone misplaced, someone dragged into a future she could not fit into.

If she'd felt this way a few weeks ago (her few weeks ago), she could've sneaked out to see Norrie or she could've stolen herself into her sister's room. Most nights, she'd wake up to find Mary already beside her anyway, having stolen most of the blanket, snoring without care and abandon.

But Norrie was gone, asleep forever, and Mary - even though she hadn't said anything about it, Lucy could tell that the year apart had distanced them. Not in a mean, hateful way. Not in a way that spelt out regret, but rather in a way she supposed was normal for people not living in the same house anymore.

And yet, she'd grieved for it. Because she hadn't lived at a distance from her for a year. She hadn't been the person who hadn't visited Mary for a year, for which she'd had to scramble through countless newspapers only to send her a letter. To her, the last time that Mary had crawled into her bed had only been two weeks ago.

Alone, alone, alone, the branches inside her whispered, and now, with everyone dead or at arm's length, it wasn't a lie anymore. She'd lost everything she'd ever known and forgotten the rest.

With no one to go to in the middle of the night, she'd often stared out the window.

She'd watched the carpark below, illuminated by green ghost-lights, and had made up stories about the lives of the people drifting in and out. Just the night before, her last night at the hospital, there'd been an old couple helping each other get into the back of a cab. Lucy had liked to imagine that they did the crossword puzzle together every morning.

Now, in her present-day attic, there was a window, too, with a green lantern just in front of it.

But, then again, she didn't feel half as lonely anymore as she had only yesterday.

Then again, she wasn't isolated inside of a white room anymore. She was home, her two best friends only a floor below her.

And now, she supposed there was someone she could go to in the middle of the night. Someone she desperately needed to talk to one-on-one, anyway.

Still, she cringed at the thought of it. It really wouldn't be fair to wake him. She'd seen the dark circles under Lockwood's eyes. She knew how direly he needed sleep.

She had already walked over to her stairs before she could stop herself.

Because just maybe, he was still awake, too. Maybe he was too amped up to sleep, just like her. Maybe she could simply go down into the kitchen, make herself a cup of tea, and then linger by his door for a few minutes to hear if he was still up. It certainly was a better option than to continue staring holes into her ceiling.

And just when she felt content with this plan, was even looking forward to it, her eyes grazed the surface of the cupboard right next to the stairs, and her heart sank.

The necklace Lockwood had gifted her wasn't there anymore.

She hadn't touched it, ever since he'd laid it down there, and even though she knew George had been in her room earlier to dig up the letter, she doubted he would move it. Which only left her with one explanation: Lockwood himself had taken it back.