Loss

Nobody took me serious enough. Sure, to everyone I was happy Oliver Wood, the Quidditch fanatic... But what they did not realize was that I was lonely. The times that I spent lying on my bed, trying to strategize and figure out new forms of winning, were spent crying under the covers. Not even my roommates noticed.

I never did have a true friend in Hogwarts, or even now. All looked up to me as the Quidditch Captain or the Keeper, but never anything more. The few friends that I once had were because of my position, and the others that just wanted tips to win for their team. But they grew sick of me talking about my sport all the time, even if they had become my friend because of that. Just sick of me. The giggly girls that followed me around, forming fan clubs and such, never actually liked me for who I was, my personality. I tried and tried. I guess I wasn’t trying hard enough.

My Mother never took interest in my life, and my Dad was a die hard Quidditch fan, which is where my love for the sport came from. He was often away in other lands to view Quidditch games, or to play. I had barely seen him since I was eleven, as he used the summer to practice with his team, because summer is the best time for the sport. Was. Used to. He died during 1996, and my hopes vanished. Perhaps I will die exactly like him, lonely and without any friends, no one to grieve for him, except his son. My Mother never cried or showed emotions for him, and never tried to comfort me. She just packed up some bags and left with most of the family cash. She was a coward. She ran away from her life.

He died, during Christmas time. We all thought we would be safe then, or at least the Daily Prophet kept insisting that during Christmas time, the Death Eaters would at least stay home with their family to celebrate. They were wrong.

Around midnight, the families were comfortably in their beds, the faint smell of turkey and wrapping paper floating around, reminding them that they would be safe. But they weren’t. The Death Eaters struck, and replaced those smells with fear and death.

I was out with roommates of mine... And decided to go visit my parents for the holidays. I had not expected the Dark Mark hovering above their house. My Mother was spared. She was spared because she chose to kill her own husband with her wand, her own choice to kill the man that she was married to for about 20 years. Only to save her pitiful life. Long after, the press and couple of Aurors came around, just people who came and tried to give me sympathy and their regrets. It was a load of crap that they gave me. They did not understand, not even try to understand that I did not really care that much. I hardly knew my own father. He rarely did anything for me, never tried to talk to me. Never.

They left quickly. Unlike the time they took to come. I sat down on the dark floor of my parents’ room, letting the tears fall... Then I flew out of there, feeling the cold wind slap my face. It was as if it was my Dad that was slapping me. Slapping me because I did not help him. Slapping me because I was a failure.

This happened many times in my past. When my Grandmother Elisabeth died of old age, when my sister died stillborn, never getting a chance to live.

I fly for all of them, each victory for them. The wind rushing or rain falling during a Quidditch Match, I have to win, to taste that taste of the precious moments standing there with the gold cup in hand, the sun shining at my face. It was as if I could feel them cheering for me too, in the crowds. That’s all that is important... And it is not like anybody else cheers me on. The crowd and the players cheer for the Seeker, or the Chasers. They never notice me. It’s as if every player except me did everything in the bloody game. But it is no matter. It’s the encouragements from the people I lost that counts. That truly counts. Because they have never done that when they were alive.

But each loss is like a pain in my heart, as if punched right there, as if there's some thing wrong with it. I can not breath then, and sometimes I can’t breath normally until days after. I almost drown myself in the showers, so it hides my tears. So the team still thinks I'm there, ready to try and win again. But I'm not. The shame when the crowds look at me with those looks of disappointment. It's if all the people I lost are also filled with disappointment at me. They’re are ashamed of me because I cannot manage to do a better job.

It's all a game to the rest of the players. They don't have anything to fly for. Bets, yes, but those are just small amounts of money. Little coins that supposedly buy you happiness.

For me, it's a matter of whether I should let myself crumble, or try to pick up the mismatched pieces that life has left for me. Left for me to put it back together, like I did for every single loss. Every time, I went ahead and tried to solve the puzzle. But this time it’s different. Different because I can no longer make myself care about them all. Different because I realized it’s their damn fault for leaving me. And because I won't try to pick them up this time. I won’t.