January 15th –
He opened his eyes!
He opened his eyes and looked at me!
After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.
But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.
It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone.
These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made.
But they do not recognize me.
Am I, at all, familiar to him?
I don't want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.
There's so much about them that's innocent and frightened.
So much about them that's desolate and dead.
We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.
I would give anything to know what's going on in his mind.
What does he see when he looks at me?
I want to reach out and touch him, but I'm afraid. I know it won't be the same. He won't be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don't know.
But whatever this is, it might be.
He won't smell like Crowley. He won't have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It's almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.
What have I done?
January 16th –
All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn't speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.
I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.
But I'm not that good an actor.
He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.
I never wanted children.
This is the 'in sickness and in health' part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.
Never mind the 'till death do us part' portion.
This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.
My love will help him. I know it will.
…
Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?
January 17th –
I'm trying my best to take the bad with the good.
I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn't seem to bend his knees.
He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn't really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley's injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.
I should get a copy of Crowley's hospital records.
But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?
Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.
The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.
I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.
I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.
He sat so still.
He didn't swallow.
He didn't appear to breathe.
The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.
He sat for hours and watched TV.
There was nothing else for him to do.
I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn't see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.
Neither did I.
January 19th –
After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.
His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.
I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.
But I don't know how comfortable I am with that anymore.
January 21st -
He doesn't sleep. And now that he doesn't rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won't hurt me. But he's such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.
It's strange having this version of him around the house.
When Crowley was
Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn't need me, didn't need my help with anything.
But now, he needs to be near me all the time.
I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it's such a striking change that it's difficult to get used to.
I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.
I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.
He's always staring.
What does he think about doing when he stares at me?
January 22nd –
I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn't stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it.
I just wanted it gone.
I've seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.
When I saw them, I almost threw up.
And he noticed.
He heard me gag.
I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.
He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.
He looked hurt.
January 27th -
Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He's not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn't thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back.
I wasn't even thinking of him.
Our lives are unrecognizable. We'll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I'll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage.
I have to be okay with that.
But what about Crowley?
If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.
But I can't turn back now.
What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?
Would attempting to kill him even work?
And what about his soul?
If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him?
I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he's able to comprehend what I've done to him.
February 1st –
I've finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn't seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that's good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.
He's more self-sufficient now.
He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn't a grunt or a moan.
I've been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …
… I have no idea if he can read.
February 3rd –
I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.
I guess they went out of business after all.
It doesn't matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it's that he doesn't feel pain.
I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...
Anyway ...
I started him small.
I had him grating cheese.
Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn't so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …
… and he smiled.
My heart leapt.
It's so nice to see him smile again.
I never thought I would.
February 4th –
I took off Crowley's bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There's not a trace of it left!
I guess that answers that question.
I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don't know why.
February 21st –
Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.
It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.
Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn't be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don't know why we kept them. We've never owned a cat.)
I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn't say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I'm a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven't been able to keep them up the way he could.
Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.
But he'd had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today.
I shrugged, repeated that I didn't understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.
"I don't know what you're trying to tell me, my dear," I said. "Do you want to go for a walk?"
I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he'd never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn't had time to deadhead. I didn't get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.
I followed him there, but he blocked the door.
I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn't help him.
He wouldn't let me.
I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn't come out till dinner time.
And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.
Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.
But this suit.
This suit in particular.
This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.
Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.
It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I'd decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn't put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.
The sight took all the air out of my lungs.
"Take it off," I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn't want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?
He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.
"Please, Crowley," I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, "take it off."
He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn't handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.
"Take it off!" I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn't really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.
I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn't take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.
He stared at me, trying to speak.
It hit me like a pile of bricks.
Speak.
That's exactly what he was doing.
His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn't be able to turn sound into words, but they were.
"A … Az … Azi …"
Crowley blinked and shook his head.
"Azir …"
"Aziraphale?" I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.
Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn't help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips.
I guess he didn't want me to steal his thunder.
"Azzzir-uh-phale," he said, smacking his lips. "I … lo … I lov …" Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. "I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale."
Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.
I could have cried.
"Our ... our anniversary?" I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.
It was our anniversary.
He'd wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.
He'd wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.
My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.
My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, "I love you, Aziraphale," because there was nothing else he could do for me.
My husband remembered our anniversary ...
... even when I had not.
June 4th -
Five months-ish later…
I can't believe it!
I cannot believe it!
Five months later and we've made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.
Happy.
Together.
We spend our days wrapped in each other's arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I'm on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they're perfect for us.
We've managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.
Because that's what Crowley is.
A miracle!
Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time!
His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.
I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.
Because I'm beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.
August 13th –
I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn't the smoke alarm. It didn't sound familiar at all, so I didn't worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn't get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn't the case, so I considered going back to sleep.
But then I noticed that Crowley wasn't laying beside me in bed.
That isn't too unusual. He's normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.
He always returns.
The squealing wasn't really that weird. I've thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I've heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can't find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven't been too aggressive about hunting it down.
My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.
That's where I found Crowley.
He was crouching on the floor …
… covered in blood …
… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."
He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.
…
I may have a problem.
Those are the last words on the page.
A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.
I haven't seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.
I'm afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …
Ka-thunk …
"Warlock …"
…
Ka-thunk …
"Warlock …"
…
Ka-thunk …
"Warlock …"
…
KA-THUNK!
"Warlock Dowling!" Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. "Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?"
"It's TikTok, Nanny," Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, "and no. I'm reading a story for my YouTube channel."
"Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?" Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. "Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you're not ready to go Tricks or Treats!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he'd been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale's bookshop for some time now. This video he's been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. "I'm coming." He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he's borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up.
It's slim fit as it used to be Crowley's from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it.
Warlock marches to the door under Crowley's watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.
"Have you been snoopin' through Angel's old manuscripts again?" Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. "You know how he feels bout that."
"I know," Warlock admits sheepishly, "but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit."
"Do you now?" Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.
"Why didn't he get them published?" Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. "He's an amazing writer!"
"He had his reasons," Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. "Oof! Those things'll give you nightmares."
"They should terrify you. He's murdered you in every single one!"
"Ah, but he does it with love." Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. "It's an honor."
