The Tunnel

The Tunnel

If I had to pick one thing that symbolised my life, it would be a tunnel. I can't think of anything else it would be like, like a river or a bird or a tree. I am not free and singing joyfully, nor green and full of life, nor am I meandering lazily through my course. But I am dark, forbidding, cold and scary, the way people always imagine tunnels to be.

There was a point in my life when I was not like this; I was outside the Tunnel, gambolling through the grassy embankments, happy in the innocence of childhood. But this did not last long. I had an -unpleasant - childhood, and as I listened to the quarrels, sick spirals of hatred and anger cut into me where it hurt most- thorns in the hedgerow, I suppose. My family were tearing themselves apart, and tearing me too. I couldn't stand it. The thorns caught me right in my heart, and the pain was unbearable. I didn't want to cry any more

Bleeding and bitter, I found the Tunnel. I began to look into it, with terrified fascination- it was cold and without life, but at least the thorns did not grow here: they could not, for the reason they hurt so much was because I loved, and within the Tunnel there was no love. There was solace in this cool darkness, a hiding place from hurt, a peace within the darker regions of myself- if peace is the word.

So that was the beginning. I sank into the depths of myself, into the dark arts, became withdrawn into the sheltering mouth of the tunnel. But always, I could see the hedgerow, and the children playing there, ignoring and avoiding the thorns as I could not. There was a group of children in particular, the Marauders, they were called. They found it odd that I should want to be so consumed within myself, within my studies and my schoolwork; they thought it strange that I did not play in the hedgerow, as it were. They poked me with the thorns through the entrance and the other children came too, jeering and humiliating me all through my Hogwarts years. The solace I thought I had found was ruined, so I had to move deeper in.

Not that I have any right to blame James Potter for my joining the Death Eaters. Though I do, I hate him, I hate his memory, I despise the thought of him, I loathe what lives of him in Harry Potter. But I know, far away and deep down. It was my fault.

There were so many times where I felt the Tunnel was too cold, I was too numb, I wanted the bright sunlight - I could have ventured out. But I was too afraid. It was pure cowardice. I was afraid of the brambles. Afraid of the other children, though I realise now that they would have played with me quite happily if I had stepped out of the darkness they feared so much, and accepted a few of the scratches that come with being a child. But that hope is long gone, too late, lost forever; you cannot come halfway through a tunnel then turn back. You must go all the way.

But back to my Tunnel. Through it I went, and if you have ever been through an old railway tunnel on foot, you will know the eerie chill, and the awareness that you cannot see what may be inches from your face, that comes with both fear and adrenaline. There was a point where I could have turned back and ran for the hedgerow, away from the fear. But I did not. The cold air was numbing my pains, and despite my fear of the Tunnel, despite my disgust for the dank walls and icy unpleasantness, for what I was doing, there was always the spark of electricity, the fear tingling in your spine, making you feel alive. It is hard to show this feeling of energy to anyone whose dislike of the dark outweighs their fear of the thorns, even the worst thorns, even the daggers. These sorts of people do not get pleasure from watching horror movies, don't seek fear. I will try to explain.

Killing and torturing may be something that you feel you could never reconcile yourself with, adrenaline seeker or not, but it was easy to view the barely known faces we tortured as objects, insignificant, their hurt irrelevant compared to ours. And the thrill of doing something like taking a life, the adrenaline, the sense of power you have, is unbearably pleasurable. A bittersweet high. A buzz of painful electricity. Guilt always creeps in, but the power we have over ourselves is huge- guilt can be pushed aside, especially with all the other Death Eaters all loudly convincing each other, and therefore themselves, they are right. They were dark days, the thorns I still had stuck in my skin ignored as I revelled in others pain. Even my own pain had its sick satisfaction, as the throb of the still-embedded thorns paled under the Cruciatus curse.

I had, by this point, lost all sight of the hedgerow, and there was no sign of the other end. I was lost in darkness. Then along comes- a torch, I suppose. Something that shows the tunnel for what it is- not a refuge from pain or a place to hide, but a slime covered and repulsive hole. The blurred faces become people, the Death Eaters weak and scared. I felt much resent towards the light for opening my eyes and spoiling my hideout, but of course, that is the purpose of a torch, to discover and illuminate.

Seeing the Tunnel for what it was filled me with fear of a different kind, a sick, inexplicable one that was not half-pleasurable adrenaline. I did not wish to be here, though I did not want to go out. I was conflicted, still wishing to stay in the tunnel but being incapable of bringing myself to leave. It is a near impossible decision to venture out of a comfortable existence you have made yourself, and begin to behave differently, even if you would rather not be where you are anymore. Many would not move.

But finally, the torch shone a path to the entrance, and so - here I sit. Not outside. Not in the dark. In the narrow twilight area where a shadow of the sun still shines, where I can see more children playing. They do not stab me with thorns as much, this time. They dare not. The Tunnel has become more than just a passage, the passage of my life, it has become me. I have been changed by it; you can see it in my eyes, the hollow spaces that are like tunnels themselves. And people retain the fear of the tunnel, so fear me. This is good. I do not want new wounds.

It is truly agonizing to be here, the embedded thorns stinging and the children bringing back dagger-sharp memories. Sometimes I wish I could go back into the cold tunnel, curl up within myself, let the chill numb my pain again. But I don't. I go in so far, but only to shine a light on the Tunnel, only to spy, without actually fully being within the darkness. But I would not go back. The pain, the twist of hurt I get from sitting in the twilight makes me feel more alive than the buzz in the Tunnel ever did, though it makes me wish I was not living anymore. I can tell the difference between being and living now. Feeling the pain makes me live. That's all I ever wanted to do, and all I ever should have done, even if I had to cry.

But it's too late now. You cannot come halfway through a tunnel, only to turn back...