Nobody Knows

"I close my eyes when I get too sad, I think thoughts that I know aren't bad, close my eyes and I count to ten, hope it's over when I open them...I wish I could count to ten, make everything be wonderful again..."

Nobody knows.

That's how she wants it to be. She wants to have this for herself, her own little secret that not even her closet "friends" know about.

They don't really care about her. They ask, and she just shrugs the answer off or makes up a simple, easy to believe lie. They don't keep asking. They accept her answer like they accept the fact that the Earth is round. They don't even think about how she keeps cutting herself. They don't ask where those swollen blackeyes come from when she visits or when they show up unexpectedly.

Thank God for Hogwarts or else she knows she would be lying cold in her grave. Ten months without the fights, without the hitting, the screaming, the swearing...and she can step into another version of herself for a little while.

This side is shocked at the words child abuse, tsks when somebody swears, and is horrified when her friends bend even the smallest rule. This version never cries and always has a studious smile on, especially when she's got a homework assignment in front of her. This adaptation of her has the perfect family and the perfect life.

Or at least that's what they think. They don't know, and they don't care. To them, she is perfect. She is Head Girl, has gotten a perfect score on her O.W.L.s, studies for every test, has a magnificent boyfriend who has never told her to go to hell, and has never let a salty tear drop down her cheek.

As soon as they have left to go to a Quidditch game or a meal, she forgets about this version. She wanders upstairs into the Gryffindor seventh year girls' dormitory and ambles into the bathroom.

She takes her razor, once used to shave skinny, pale legs, and locks the door to the stall in the corner, the one that the house elves rarely clean, where the graffiti about who is the worst slut and which guy to stay away from has been written. She puts the plastic lid to the toilet down, and wipes it clean with toilet paper making sure she does not get any dirt on her shirt that will be soiled within a few seconds.

Carefully, she places the pink razor on her left arm. She always starts on that arm because that is where the vein leading to the heart is.

She presses the razor harder, harder, until she breaks the surface of the skin and the rich red blood spills out like a small geyser just bursting to break free. A crystal tear overflows her brown eyes, and glides down her cheek, smoothly, the way she wishes her life could be. Grimacing, she picks up the blade and presses it down again on another part of her arm, creating an intricate design.

It is like a game. Whichever arm bleeds the most gets the most points, but in the end they all win. She sometimes compares it to Quidditch. Sometimes it hurts, but you always feel satisfied in the end.

Only a few tears slide down her face like ice, but having to hold the rest in turns her face red like precious rubies. The tears splash off her cheeks, and they mix in with the blood, making it more watery and watery every second. Soon the blood has been diluted to a pale vermilion color, and she usually decides that she is through.

When she feels as if her pain has been released for the time being, she wipes the blade on a piece of toilet paper and she checks to see if she has spilled any of the red elixir that unbottles her pain on her white, crisp, collared shirt labeled with the Gryffidnor insignia. Usually she has, so she unbuttons the shirt and slips it off. She knows that nobody will be inside so she walks about, just wearing her black, lacy bra and plaid skirt, as if she hasn't a care in the world.

She then quietly unlocks the door and walks out. She checks herself in the mirror to see if it looks as if she has been crying. She splashes cold water onto her face and it always makes her jump.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the small makeup kit that she bought last year.

Makeup has become her best friend. She dabs on ivory concealer under her eyes and rubs it in. The heavy purple bags have disappeared. The foundation and powder covers her bruises after her father gets mad, and when used properly, she can look happy. Normal.

She loves the makeup but she hates it. She wishes she could throw it away and go to class after her father has had another fit. After another one of her rendezvous with razors, or after another sleepless night of wondering when she is going to die.

She pulls her lips apart into a small smile and looks at the mirror. She hates herself. She hates every strand of wavy hair, every freckle, every zit. She wishes she were dead.

She stares at her tiny reflection, wondering who she has become.

She is an angel that has fallen to the ground, crushing her wings on the fall. She has no hope of returning to that safe, lovely heaven so high above her head, instead she can only look to the ground and the blood that has gathered from her cuts and bruises. She prays that there is a god somewhere who will help her, send her another angel who will help her back up, but so far, there has been no reply. It seems as if there are demons all about her, trying to bring her down like Lucifer but she won't give up...yet.

She wants to be able to fly again but her wings have been crippled and there are no casts, no splints or doctors to fix them. She has tried, tried, tried, and tried, but failed miserably. It seems that whenever she tries she only falls a little lower. She has given up fixing them by now, and simply lives with it. It seems she does not fall anymore but stays on the same level - almost rock bottom. It can happen though.

~*~*~*~

Today she is fighting on the verge of tears. She has received an owl from her mother. Her mother has told her that she hates her and wishes she was dead and that she has torn apart her marriage. That is not news to her, but it still stabs her in the heart like a knife to a piece of meat. Her eyes glaze over with frosty tears as she stares at the letter and she bends her head down telling herself to breathe in and out, in and out.

Her friends only ask if something's wrong and she mumbles, "No, no, I'm fine, don't worry."

They shrug and go about their business, talking about Quidditch, the latest tests, and how Professor Snape is "sooooo unfair." This reminds her of the test she has just failed, but has told no one about.

And then he approaches her, as she sits on the bench playing with her fork on her empty plate. She hasn't eaten breakfast in about a year.

He tells her that the sex was great, but she wasn't fulfilling enough and so he has found another girl. He stalks off and she watches him wrap his hand around another girl's butt as he slides into the seat next to her.

She doesn't want to know what will happen next. She doesn't care. The words "I'll be right back," drop out of her fumbling mouth and she grabs her things, knowing that she won't be back.

She marches upstairs again, and she repeats her procedure except now this time she has a sharp knife that she has stolen from the kitchen instead of a simple shaving razor.

She wipes the seat off, and sits on it, breathing deeply. She wipes a quick note to her family and friends. I am so sorry I had to do this, but there is nothing left. The pain is too great, You never asked about me, never cared, never told me once that you loved me. And now, I will be gone. Please put this on my gravestone...

Love, and then she signs her name.

She hopes that heaven is a happy place where she will be able to be herself and not have different variations. The blade sinks into her skin, and blood squirts out. She hopes that her friends and family will understand, will not be too upset with her when they find her sprawled across the floor, blood sinking into the tiles, her body cold. The knife sinks into her other wrist. She prays that God will forgive her for all of her trespasses, and that she will be able to look down on her friends from heaven.

The world begins to spin, and she finds herself falling....she had hoped for so much and in the end got so little...the world darkens...

"I just don't see how you can smile with all those tears in your eyes when you tell me everything is wonderful now..."

* * * *

He crouches next to her gravesite, unable to keep his tears inside his emerald green eyes. They spill out, glittering diamonds against his tan skin. "If we only we had asked," he whispers and gets up, walking away.

The headstone reads:

Hermione Granger

Beloved friend

I look for the glory of God,

And I have found him.

"I do believe you when you say everything will be wonderful someday."