The Grass Isn't Always Greener on the Other Side

The Grass Isn't Always Greener on the Other Side

Chapter One: How an Over-Achieving Perfectionist Comes About

The beginning wasn't as best as she supposed it could be. There were good times, and then there were bad times. But mostly, there were bad times.

Even as a young child, she sensed something was wrong. She was about four-years-old when she finally recognized it. It was a well enough fall day. The trees were a beautiful color of red, gold and brown, just beginning to turn. The light, cool breeze was welcoming for everyone, anyone to come and enjoy it. But, she wasn't allowed to.

No. She seldom was allowed to go outside and play with the other children, at least during the day. She always had to do work, or practice on this, or work on that. As a child, she didn't understand all of this. Why was all this work so necessary? All of the other children got to play outside. Why couldn't she?

One such day, the young girl found herself writing down something she'd learned to call "charms" on a piece of parchment, over and over again. This was known as memorization. What that was, she didn't know, but father told her to do it, so it had to be done. That was how things were around the house. She always had to do what father wanted, or father would get very angry. Even mother had to follow father's orders, or she was punished. They yelled and screamed, and it always ended in a punishment for mother since she was naughty. Mother was always naughty, it seemed.

Her little, freckled hand began to write down a rather humorous word, that made her laugh every time she'd managed to spell it correctly. Which was every time. She laughed and laughed, and was happy. So happy, in fact, that she found it fit to stand up, and make her way outside, to play.

A great joy filled her as she threw the leaves about, making a crunching noise every time she stepped on one. The little girl ran about the yard, tripping every so often, as little girls tend to be very clumsy. But that only made it more enjoyable, right?

The joy left, however, as she saw her father appear. It suddenly hit her, like a rock; she wasn't supposed to be outside. She was supposed to be inside, studying and memorizing her words. Her father stepped up to her, and yelled at her, but not loudly. He yelled at her very softly, which sent a curious chill up her spin. He picked her up, his grip very firm, and he literally dropped her on the floor, where she was supposed to be studying and memorizing. And then it came. Her emerald green eyes saw father walk into the kitchen where her mother was cleaning, and the yelling began. Her voice was a lot quieter than his voice, the little girl inferred to herself. She watched them curiously, and then it was time for mother's punishment. Father hit her, making her fall, and then once more, as she was lying on the ground.

The little girl knew it had to be done, but she didn't particularly enjoy seeing her mother being punished by father. Father then walked in, picked her up, and set her down again where she needed to be working. He then proceeded to drink some of the smelly liquid in the bottle he always drank. She'd never really thought twice about it. It never affected her, why should she?

The realization came to her later that night, however. She was playing with her mother in the kitchen, "helping" her with the dishes. She'd always enjoyed hitting the pots and pans with spoons, seeing how much noise she could actually make at once. Besides, it was fun doing that, wasn't it? She always enjoyed it, anyway.

Apparently, father didn't. He swaggered into the kitchen, yelling, and banging his fist on the table. She thought he was simply joining in, so she continued to merrily hit the pots and the pans. Her father then picked her up, and her mother began screaming at him, pleading him not to. Not to what?

The sudden involvement of her with the yelling scared her, so naturally, she began to cry. Father's grip only furthered, and he let her fall to then ground. He bent down, and slapped the little girl, yelling at her to be quiet. It only frightened her more, so she began to sob, rather loudly. Having being fed up with it, he shook her violently, continually hitting her.

Mother's voice became hysterical, and she picked up the child, holding her, cradling her, which made the child--and the mother--feel a bit better. Father rose up, and attempted to grab "his child" away from mother, but she wouldn't have it. Finally, he walked away, slamming the door to his room, and the child heard bumps and screams from it.

Mother, however, smiled as sweetly as she could, and told the child, softly: "Hush, now, my little angel. Things will be fine...Daddy loves you so, he was just angry. He didn't mean it. Ssh, sweetheart, shh, be still..." She held the little girl in her arms as long as it took the child to fall asleep. The woman laid her daughter in her bed once she had, tears softly streaming from her eyes. The woman kissed the girl's soft face, wiping a small amount of blood from the child's lip, and walked out, her eyes closed.

Six years later, the only light in the girl's life, her mother, her whole life, passed away abruptly. The ten-year-old was never told how she died, or why she died; only that she did. Life after that was miserable. She had learned how to avoid father at all costs, and his anger, especially while he was drinking. She'd finally acquired some friends, as she'd mastered her studies until she began school. She looked forward to that awfully.

Her father had begun to treat her less like a child, now, and more of an adult woman. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Ever since she matured, she'd been forced to complete the housework, and make sure everything was in order. If not, mother's punishments had become her own, then. The yelling, and then the hitting. The punishment was never severe enough to the point where she'd show any signs of it, now. As cruel her father may have been, he was smart. He knew how to not get caught.

Life went on as usual--as usual as possible, anyway. Currently, she, Miss Alexandria Weasley, daughter of a Mr. Percy Weasley, attended Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for five years, as she was in her fifth year. She was at the top of her class. A prefect, Quidditch Beater, and in the school's chorus. People looked up to her, they wanted to aspire to be her, which made her sick to her stomach. No one should want to be her. If only they'd knew.