Chapter Two
The Oath

No one found her until lunch ended and her teacher, after calling role, saw that she wasn't in class. She sent one of her more trustworthy students out to look for her. The girl fond Petunia on the lawn and after that no one could function very normally. Adrian stood behind a tree and laughed morosely. But the others were genuinely shocked; no matter how much they disliked her, they never wanted to see her that hurt. Every one had that "I'm so sorry," look on their faces when they talked to me. It was because of them that the E.M.T.'s allowed me to accompany her on the ambulance. Nothing is worst then listening to a load of nine and ten year olds beg. News cameras and reporters followed us all the way to the hospital. I refused to leave Petunia's side when we reached the hospital, even if it meant watching behind a plate glass window with a mask.

Mum and dad were furious. Not because she'd been hurt, oh no, what they cared about was the bill. For three days I lived in that emergency room, listening to the steady beeps that monitored her heart. Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. I read to her her favorite books over again. I had heard some where that a familiar voice is suppose to speed up recovery. I nearly went mad questioning myself. Was there anything I could have done? Was there any permanent damage? What if I hadn't gone with toughs girls? Who did this? What if she never comes around?

But of course she did. On Saturday, around noon. She slowly opened one bleary eye; looked at me, then at the room, taking in the white walls and tiles, the blue curtain that surrounded her bed, the catheters, and heavy machinery. Then she closed them again and fell asleep.

It took nearly two days after that for her to make any sense when talking. But she didn't talk much after she could. She'd just lie there, starring numbly at the sealing, Adrian's words tumbling through her head again and again. Of course I didn't know that at the time. I've found most of this out post death.

I did everything I could to make her comfortable, but still she refrained from saying sentences longer then three or four words long. She had never been so distant from me.

"What is it?" I asked her after a while, sounding a bit more irritated then I had intended.

"Nothing," she replied in a dead sort of monotone voice.

"Rubbish," I told her. "Don't play games with me, Petunia, I know you too well for that."

She looked me in the eyes for the first time since we were petting that rabbit back at school. But her expression was hard, and almost defiant, not at all like my Petunia. "Do you?" she said.

"Yes," I said sitting by her bed on a white, wood chair. "Tell me why you're so upset with me."

"What makes you think I'm upset with you?" she said, as if daring me to pursue the issue.

"Well, for one thing you haven't said so little to me since you were two." She gave me a perverse snort. "For another," I said in a far more parental voice, "we always said that in times of need we would turn to each other. I have your back and you have mine. Remember? You're not holding up your end of the bargain."

Petunia's expression softened, but she still sounded quite dubious when she said, "Things change."

"Some things change," I agreed. "But were blood," I said grabbing her hand. "Were sisters, Petunia, and I will always be there for you. Please, please tell me what's wrong?"

It took a long time for her to answer, but when she did she sounded very choked up. "He said you were different, Lily. He said you didn't love me."

"Who did?"

"Adrian."

"Adrian?! Adrian did this to you?!" I shouted, leaping to my feet.

Petunia put her hand out and pulled me back down. "Lily, please. Don't go making a scene, it doesn't matter who did what. The point is, Lily, he said you were dangerous."

"Adrian's had a grudge against me for a very long time. You shouldn't listen to anything he says."

Petunia shook her head in assent, but she still didn't look very convinced. "He said you did something to him. He said he doesn't remember what, but it made every one afraid of you."

I slowly turned and looked at her, my heart doing a weird sort of drum roll. "Blimey," I said in panic, sticking my head in my hand.

"What is it? What did you do? Tell me."

I looked up at her, took a deep breath, but nothing came out. I couldn't tell her. What would she think of me if she knew?

"Tell me," she repeated.

And I knew that if I didn't tell her, I would loose her forever. "I don't know how he could have forgotten," I said, not really attached to this world anymore. I started off slow and delicately, but soon my voice and heart had all the vigor as if I were right there, doing it all over again. I felt the power tingle the tips of my fingers, felt the perverted pleasure of hurting such an evil person so badly, rush through my veins like morphine. I was startled to find myself sitting by my sister's bed when I finished. Petunia looked at me with a mixture of astonishment and fear.

"I don't know why it happened, but you have to believe me when I tell you that I'm not dangerous."

It took her a while but slowly she nodded her head, and then whispered, "I would have done the same," she broke into a wide, comforting smile, and we both giggled.

I looked intently at her and held her hand again. "No matter what happens," I said, "no matter what may come. Know this; I will always love you. Remember that." I don't know what compelled me to say that, but I did. A bit rich for an eight year old? Perhaps. But I believe that when fate tells you to draw the short straw, it feels obligated to make up for it. Maybe that's why all the greats died young.

Petunia looked at me for a moment, unable to say anything. Then she launched herself at me and held me as she softly cried. She let all the poisonous tears that had been bottled up for so long go. But even if her heart was telling her that I loved her, and that I hadn't meant for anything to happen to her, her mind still felt differently. Her head had convinced her heart once that I was out to get her, that she should fear me, that she should hate me, and it left a worry punctuated with doubt in her soul. That mark would always be there, a loose bolt, waiting for something to break it free.