A Poor Man's Memory

Title 'A Poor Man's Memory' is a song by Explosions In The Sky and is © them.

Chapter 1: The story of my life

Through my entire life, I can not recall anyone ever saying the words "I love you" to me. I am thirty-five years old now and I myself have only once ever said those words to another person, and this was very long ago, so long ago, it seems, that I find it hard to believe I am not older than this. I still remember the relief of finally being able to utter this most secret, most dear feeling to the person around which all of my thoughts had been revolving for so long. It was as though I had been running very far for a very long time and suddenly got to a halt, sat down and breathed out; as if a huge knot of suppressed feelings and insecurities around my heart was suddenly loosened. I had wanted to tell her for so long, had wanted to show her all that which I hid in me, being too afraid of being turned down to show it to her before.

Her name was Lily. For a long time, I was certain she would never find out, but one day, in spite of myself, I heard my own voice speak the words I for so long had kept from her, and I didn't want to stop it. I remember smiling once I had said it, I couldn't help myself from it, it felt so good. But the words she then said soon wiped the smile of my face. Of course. How could I have been so naive as to think that something good could come out of it? How could I ever have expected her to see beauty in such a face as my own? How could I ever have thought that she could love me, the way I loved her?

This experience, I believe, is the reason as to why I have grown so bitter and resentful. I only just realized it, but since she and I stopped talking and spending time together, my life seemed so much more dull and grey. Once we both finished school and moved out of our old homes, we never spoke to each other again. It happened, though, every now and then that I heard people speak her name and my heart seemed to miss a beat each and every time they did. I was always unprepared to hear of her, seeing as I was trying so hard to repress the memory of her. It hurt too much to think of the life she now lived, a life where she was probably far happier than she ever could have been with me.

The fact that she got married so soon after graduation didn't bother me as much as the person she got married to. He is the worst, most despicable man I have ever met and up to this day, I still don't understand what she saw in him. Apparently, there was more to him than the bullying, cruel teenager I saw. I could only hope that he treated her better than he treated me.

For many years, I buried myself in grief over losing my one love to the man I hated the most. I told myself that I no longer had a reason to live, yet, for some reason I stayed alive, although it wasn't a very pleasant life at the time. When the news of her death reached me, I fell even deeper into my depression. All the hurtful memories I had tried so hard to forget surfaced and seemed to be mocking me.

Needless to say, I became self-destructive. I isolated myself from the world and from myself and all I could ever see was how alone and how pathetic I was. I wanted to die, but it seemed I was too indifferent even to kill myself. Instead, I led a zombie-like existence for so long, before I finally found it in me to pull myself up from the gutter.

Naturally, I didn't do this all on my own; I got help from a man to which I hadn't spoken since I was in school. It was none other than my old Headmaster, a noble and fair man to which I owe so much. He offered me a job at my old school and I was too dazed to decline. Within a couple of months, I had woken from the deep slumber that was several years of depression and even though I never was quite the same again, I felt more alive than ever before. I can't say I was happy, but the feeling of being surrounded by people and living my days on routines made me content - which was the closest to happy I had been in a long time.

Then he came along, and once again, all those painful memories were brought back to me. Harry Potter looked so much like his father; I found it hard not to hate him. Although I knew it unfair to punish him for what his father had done, I couldn't help myself. I guess I saw it as my chance for retribution. And even still, when I see him in my classes or in the corridors, I feel a sting of disgust just by looking at him. Then I feel shameful for being so childish in my search for revenge, taking it out on him - for goodness sake, both of his parents are dead and he's faced so many horrors, too many for his age. I really wish I treated him better, for his mother's sake mostly, but as soon as I see him, I am overwhelmed by the hate I feel for his father. If only they didn't look so much alike. If only he had a little more of his mother's features, more than just her eyes.

Her eyes... He really does have them, which is why I sometimes manage to stop myself from being so mean to him. When I look into his eyes and see her, I realize what it is I'm doing and I feel ashamed. And I should be ashamed. I am nothing but a cowardly, bitter and lonesome man in his early middle-ages, who blames the rest of the world for all the losses in his life.