Windows of the Soul

Windows of the Soul

The heat wrapped him in a suffocating cocoon that seemed to leech energy from his body. The air was heavy and still; it pressed around him, causing a dull ache in his head. He knew he needed water-his parched throat was evidence enough. Since he was a child, he had been better suited to cold than heat-even his Animagus form was thickly coated. The more he thought about getting a glass of cool water the more apathetic he became. It was as though the syrupy heat had permeated his limbs, rendering them useless.

He lay back on the rumpled sheets, trying not to think of the real reason why he wouldn't enter the kitchen. It harked back to those dim childhood days when he would scare himself silly at night, creating monsters from the dark shapes of toys or clothes. It was the same sort of situation now, except it was now tinged with life-preserving paranoia. He knew that they were still hunting him diligently; wizards and witches had a finely developed sense of vengeance and also, more to their credit, they would never let such a "dangerous" person loose on the innocents of the world. Sighing heavily, he exerted himself enough to roll on his side, as his back was sticky with sweat.

Then he brushed away his nebulous fears with a flick of his mind. It was ridiculous-why couldn't he just walk into the kitchen and get a drink? He knew he was relatively safe, even if his overtaxed mind was obsessing over childish fears and insecurities. With these bracing thoughts in his head, he lurched into the cramped hall and then paused, one foot poised over the saddle of the kitchen door. He cursed himself for his weakness, but he couldn't help glancing at the gleaming windows lining the kitchen. The acted like mirrors in the night, reflecting everything inside and hiding everything outside.

Anyone would laugh if they found out. How could he be afraid of windows at nighttime? But it wasn't the windows in themselves. It was what could be outside of them. It was this fear that dogged him as he made his way stiffly over to the stainless steel sink. He tried to keep his mind on how the water would taste, its silvery drops smoothing his grainy tongue and throat. Instead, his hand shook as he reached for a glass. He imagined how his unprotected back would seem to a predator, for that was how he thought of the wizarding authorities. And what of something unknown, maybe one of those juvenile monsters he had created. And if something were out there, he wouldn't be able to see it. It was this thought that set his heart racing with apprehension, that made him feel as though a thousand needles were pricking along his spine. The fear of the unknown and more importantly, the fear of that which you cannot defend yourself against, these were the primitive fears that lurked all the time in his mind.

The splash and gurgle of the water hitting the glass sounded absurdly loud to his strained senses. He hurriedly gulped the liquid, barely savouring the sensation of water hitting his desiccated mouth. He placed the glass on the Formica counter with a bang while his rapidly whirling thought fragments threw his mind into panic. He skidded across the gritty lino and almost threw himself into the hallway. All of his shame was gone; now he was only terrified. He closed his eyes when he reached his bed, as though this would chase away the demons of his imagination. The heat that surrounded him this time was of a different kind. It wasn't still and enclosing like before. It seemed to mix with his fear and anxiety, dancing through his body like something active, something malevolent.

His could hear his blood pumping relentlessly through him, his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. He knew with gloomy certainty that sleep wouldn't come near for the rest of the night. But even in the midst of his paranoid imaginings and muddled thoughts, somewhere in the recesses of his mind he laughed self-deprecatingly. He was probably the only person for whom windows were the eyes of his soul.